Shitsuren

Chapter 1: Jijo (Boys &Girls)

 
 

I realized that he liked boys when we first entered high school.

Well, not just boys  in general . . . it was one boy in particular, and a popular one at that.
“Kyaaa! Shimizu-kun’s here!”
The usual cacophony of screams and twitters and excited giggles resounded through the freshman
homeroom 1-D, and I sat resignedly at my desk, staring in boredom at the chalkboard ahead. By that
time, all the girls had run out of the room in their collective madness, leaving only me and the guys.
They paid me no attention, of course; how could they, what with Hayato hovering around me all the
time?
It would have been a gesture worthy of blushing over had I not caught on to Hayato’s thinly-veiled
guise of spying on Shimizu Jun from the window next to me long ago, any pleasure I might have
attained from his presence having been sucked dry by reality.
He had a crush on Shimizu—that much was for certain.
I resisted the urge to furrow my brow discontentedly when I noticed him peeking at the pretty boy
from the open window again, reminding myself that any misgivings I once had about Hayato’s
“preference” should have been erased by then. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help the corner of my lips
from slipping southwards in rue, my eyes softening as I directed my vision away from my best friend.
He would never understand, anyway.
“Kaho? Daijoubu?” (1)
He noticed my small foray into hopelessness before I could let it wholly consume me for the day, and
the worry displayed on his strikingly handsome features made me redden unconsciously. I waved off
the concern, smiling lightly.
“Hai. Shinpai shinaide, Hayato,” (2) I said as reassuringly as I could, once more ignoring the
sensation that flitted inside me whenever I heard him speak my name in his newly-deepened timbre. I
quickly shoved down the sudden lump in my throat, relieved when his shining face smiled in return,
satisfied enough with my response to continue his discreet observance of Shimizu’s grand entrance. I
could have sighed at the loss of his attention, but knew better than to act like a spoiled child. I
couldn’t always be his most important person, as sad as the thought was to me.
Out of my insatiable, puerile curiosity, I glanced over at where Hayato kept peeping at, staring at the
school’s idol with a mixture of disdain and bemusement.
Why is he worshipped by every damn girl in this school? What the hell makes  him  so goddamn
special?  Was what I was thinking as I stared hard at the chestnut brown-haired object of Hayato’s
interest, my jealousy destroying any scrap of rational reasoning that I might have had left in me then.
I felt my forehead, as it always did when I found myself without a good answer, crinkle in annoyance
from the headaches that that Shimizu  character brought about.
Suddenly, I realized how awful my expression must have looked to outsiders, especially to Hayato,
and I leaned back in my chair, promptly turning away from the window.
Unfortunately, my timing had been just a few seconds off, and Hayato gave me a puzzled look. “Are
you sure you’re OK? You looked angry for a while there,” he remarked without a note of sarcasm or
anything else but the truest of regard, and I felt my chest tighten at his remarkable emotional
honesty. I shook my head, offering him another neutral smile.
“I promise I’m all right,” I told him lightly, and I unwittingly squeezed his hand for further proof of my
sanity.
His gaze lowered from my eyes to our connected hands at my unexpected motion, and while he
appeared surprised, there was no discomfort in his features. In fact, he even went so far as to grasp
my hand in his, as if to assure me  that he would be there when I needed him.
When I  felt the warmth of his large hand envelop mine own, however, I deftly retracted my shocked
fingers from his hold, feeling the worse for it afterwards. He sent me another questioning look at my
withdrawal and had looked ready to ask me about it—had the bell for homeroom to start not rung
right on time, and with its ringing a sigh of relief escaped from my respiratory clutches.
Mr. Dewa entered the room not a second later, eyeing the lot of us (for the most part) unruly
freshmen with the customary imperiousness of a senior teacher. Usually I would have snorted to
myself at the mere sight of his arrogant ass, but with confusion beams radiating off of Hayato and
striking me constantly, I found that rather difficult to do.
“Wakamoto?” Mr. Dewa did roll call with a frown, his pen waiting impatiently to get the job over and
done with.
Hayato, despite having been occupied with trying to figure out my mood, answered to his surname.
“Hai.” Just as soon as that was over, however, his eyes immediately found mine again, and it took
willpower I didn’t know that I had to keep myself from breaking the stare.
So engrossed was I, in fact, that I did not even notice that Mr. Dewa had called my name three or four
times already, his nasal voice only getting louder with each repetition. It took an angry whisper into
my ear from the kid behind me, Yabuki Shinichi, for me to even register that I was, indeed, in school.
“Psst! Watanabe! Just answer him already! His voice is fucking annoying!”
I snapped out of my reverie, thus severing mine and Hayato’s connection for the moment, and finally
replied to the entirely irritated Mr. Dewa.
“Hai,” I mumbled almost incoherently while raising my hand, and some of the other students in the
homeroom rolled their eyes upon spotting my person. Mr. Dewa frowned as well, but said nothing,
simply marking me down as present and continuing his roll call of terror.
Upon noticing my diverted concentration, Hayato seemed to drop the matter, readjusting himself at
his desk just a few seats ahead of mine. I almost smiled at the motion, musing (with some inner
delight) that he still hadn’t gotten completely used to the seating arrangement of our homeroom,
having been so accustomed to sitting directly in front of me for as long as we both could remember.
Again, my heart hurt a little to think of the blissful ignorance of the past, but I didn’t let the pain get
to my head. It had become an everyday occurrence by then, unpleasant as it was to experience.
---
“Watanabe-san? Ano(3). . . we were just curious . . . is Wakamoto-kun your boyfriend?”
It was the same insufferable question that was asked of me on a daily basis in school, and it was
always asked at a time when Hayato wasn’t there to answer for me.
Nonetheless, I negated the girls’ suspicions, keeping my exasperation to a minimum. “Iie,” (4) I said
simply, pretending to work on my math homework during the lunch period. Usually I would have
eaten on the rooftop with Hayato to try and avoid such bothersome inquiries, but it was cold that day,
and those girls would have somehow managed to find me by myself anyways.
Noting that they still hadn’t stopped circling my desk like hawks, I looked back up at the girls
pointedly. “Doushitano?” (5) I asked with affected concern, and the leader of the group, one Endo Ai,
exchanged looks with two of her friends before addressing me.
“Demo(6). . . Wakamoto-kun always hangs out with you, and he even calls you by your first name,”
she said with her easily identifiable, cutesy brand of harmless suspicion, one that made me want to
gag. Several of the other girls nodded in innocent agreement with the not-so-subtle harangue, and I
bit back a frown from breaking out on my twitching lips.
Who the hell does she think she is? I stared at Endo with contempt belying my surface confusion,
sizing her up for a moment.
She was pretty, I’ll admit that much—her long, wavy black hair shined brilliantly under the afternoon
sun, hiding whatever unsettling intentions she truly had. Add to that a set of perfectly shaped lips,
contact-blue eyes, and a great figure, and I looked like yesterday’s leftovers in comparison.
She seemed to catch onto my scorning impression of her, and for a split second, an amused smirk
flashed across her lips.
I blinked at the momentary change in persona from her, wondering if I had imagined it. Could I have
been right all along about her? I was sometimes too quick to judge people based on their outward
appearance or initial behavior, so when I caught myself thinking badly about someone, I had to doubt
my pre-conceptions.
“We’re just friends,” I replied after what seemed like an hour of the battle of inner wills between Endo
and me. It was the perfunctory answer for anybody who asked such a trite question or made false
assumptions about my nonexistent relationship with Hayato, and, to Endo’s group, it was one that
they had heard repeatedly for the past three months.
Normally the group would have retreated then, having been wholly put off by my disregard of their
baseless skepticism. Butthat  time, Endo took a seat in front of me, staring plaintively at me with eyes
that were filled with false naivete.
“Watanabe-san, you always say that,” she said pathetically, and again her minions echoed the
sentiment. I could have broken my pencil in frustration by that point, but restrained myself at the last
second.
“That’s because it’s always  true,” I responded with some impatience, fighting to keep my teeth from
gritting. I couldn’t concentrate on homework at all  by then, and silently begged the gods that Hayato
would be finished with his damned bathroom break already!!!
“What’s going on, Kaho?”
As if on cue, Hayato appeared in the doorway of the room, staring questioningly at the swarm of girls
that had gathered around my desk. I could have cried out of joy, so thankful was I that he seemed to
read my mind without actually reading it at all.
I opened my lips to answer him, but Endo beat me to the punch, hurriedly leading her cronies over to
where Hayato stood, the proverbial hearts of love dancing in her big, glassy eyes.
“We were just asking her where you were, Wakamoto-kun!” she lied blatantly, and the other girls
nodded in affirmation, all ogling him in a similar manner. I snorted at the sight, rolling my eyes as I
looked out the window again, waiting for Hayato to disperse the crowd.
“Ah . . . sou ka. (7) Well, I have to talk to Kaho now, if you girls don’t mind . . .” he excused himself,
and though a collective moan of disappointment followed his announcement, they all let him through
shortly after. Knowing how Endo and her girls were, I wasn’t surprised in the least to see them
eavesdropping enviously by the door as Hayato made his way towards me, something of a knowing
look in his deep brown eyes.
“Were they asking about us again?” he inquired quietly so that the other girls wouldn’t hear him, fully
aware that they stalked his every move. He sat down at the empty desk in front of me, and I nearly
giggled at his obvious relief of being able to sit in his old spot again. I settled for a small smile at the
amusing display, putting away my homework for the moment.
“Of course,” I replied amusedly, and he only returned my humor with that irresistible grin of his. I
heard some girlish swoons both outside and inside the classroom at the expression, and suddenly felt
the urge to brood over the all-too-familiar sound.
“Sorry that I wasn’t here to ward them off,” he murmured, and I laughed a little despite his sheepish
tone.
“Daijoubu,” I said, smiling gratefully. “They would come even if you were here—you know that.”
He could only nod in acknowledgement of the truth, smiling a little himself. “Sou desu. But at least
you’re here to back me up,” he reminded me cheerfully, and my heart sank at his implications.
Sou; I’m always there to deny being your girlfriend.
The thought was too glum to hold onto, and before long we fell into a fairly normal conversation about
how boring our day together had been, since indeed we did not part often throughout it. We had the
same homeroom, the same lunch, lived in the same neighborhood, were interested in the same things
—I suppose the only difference we ever shared was our genders.
“Kaho, can you come over tonight? I need your help with some things at home,” Hayato asked
suddenly, and, much to my chagrin, the question was heard by a girl that was sitting closer to us than
I had realized, and she flushed at his, in truth, fairly innocent request. Within seconds, another rumor
was being spread about us by her, and I sighed, leaning my head onto my palm in defeat.
“Mochiron, Hayato.” (8)
---
“Gomen gomen gomen,Kaho!” (9)
“Daijoubu, Hayato! I told you, I’m not upset or anything!”
I dismissed Hayato’s excess apologies for what seemed like the billionth time since school had ended
and since he had realized that he had spoken too loudly again, thereby feeding the gossip that was
already in the air about us. I smiled lightly to reassure him of my unaffected state of mind, though, in
truth, the knowledge that I would be ostracized the next day at school yet again was anything  but
pleasant. The fact that I was the best friend (and suspected girlfriend) of one of the most popular
freshmen boys in the entire district had earned me few friends and even less goodwill. Most girls
whispered about me when I passed them by or purposely reserved their nastiest of descriptions for
me when they knew that I was in the girl’s bathroom with them, alone and vulnerable.
Shockingly enough, they had never gone so far as to draw me out by myself and gang up on me like
they always do in those damn shoujo manga, but there had been enough close calls to keep me on
guard for my safety. Hayato had caught on to the girls’ perceptions of me as well, much to my
surprise, and he stayed relatively close to me whenever it was humanly possible. In fact, it had been
his implicit request to his unofficial “fan club” that they do nothing to harm me in any way, and for the
most part, his appeal had been fulfilled; the most they did anymore, as evidenced earlier that day,
was to ask me about the nature of our relationship and then back off after I declined to give them the
answers they wanted. Some of the girls, on rare occasions, had even tried sucking up to me to get
closer to Hayato, though that too was to no avail.
Sometimes I wanted to chuckle at their transparent hatred of me, but mostly I wanted to laugh
outright at their pure ignorance. How can they worship a guy that will never, and  can  never,
reciprocate their feelings?  But I knew the answer to that question—I knew it because once, I had been
in their position.
Once, I had loved him too.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “Are you all right?”
2 “Yes, don’t worry about me.” (“Hai” yes; “Shinpai shinaide” don’t worry)
3 The Japanese equivalent of “umm.”
4 “No.”
5 “What’s wrong?”
6 “But”
7 “Oh . . . I see.” (“Sou ka,” “Sou,” and “Sou desu” I sort of use interchangeably—their meanings are
almost identical, being, in order, “I see,” “Yes,” and “That’s true.”)
8 “Of course.”
9 “I’m really, really, really sorry!” (technically “gomen” simply means “I’m sorry,” but I think you
understand this context, ne?)
Title of chapter (translated): Boys and Girls
Author’s Note: Just something I came up with on a whim. Because I have a lot of gay friends, and,
well, this situation doesn’t seem too  unbelievable, does it? I like writing in the first person, anyway—
it’s a refreshing change for me. Hope you liked it! (By the way, the title of the fic, translated, means
“Unrequited Love” or “Broken Heart.”) Oh, and if the footnotes are a bother, feel free to tell me so in
the review. I just like using the Japanese language to create a more...realistic setting? It's a habit of
mine.
CHAPTER 2 PREVIEW:
A look into the past of Kaho and Hayato, and a continuation of the present storyline—can Kaho come
to terms with her feelings (or whatever is left of them) for Hayato?
Please REVIEW!! It would mean the world to me.
 
 
 
 
Chaper : Konjaku
 
“Hayato! Matte!” (1)
I ran to catch up with my best friend, having been entirely distracted by the light touches of autumnal
reds and yellows that colored the trees surrounding the high school. I was in better spirits than I had
been all summer, the anticipation of entering the new school somehow alleviating most of my worries.
In short, there had been little, if anything, to spoil my mood then.
I smiled easily, forgetting the suspicions and doubts and troubles that had occupied my mind for much
of middle school, instead looking to my side and finding the equally elated expression of Hayato.
Along with the elation that I saw there, however, there was a hint of anxiety—about what, I couldn’t
imagine, but the emotion did strike me as somewhat odd coming from him. Usually I  was the high-
strung and emotionally unbalanced half of our pair, and he the calm, reasonable one. Nevertheless, I
continued walking beside him, ignoring the dubious feeling that settled quietly at the bottom of my
stomach at that moment.
“Wakamoto-kuuuuun!”
As soon as we reached the gates of the high school, Hayato’s primary through middle school groupies
shrieked and surrounded the two of us, though I found myself being edged out, slowly but surely, of
the inner circle. I scowled at the sudden disruption on my first day as a high-schooler, about to shove
my way back to my companion . . .
Suddenly, I felt a strong grip grab me by my right forearm, its strength dragging me through the
throng of girls and back to where I felt most comfortable: by Hayato’s side.
I was surprised by his jerking action on my arm, but felt all the more relieved when I looked up to see
him smiling down at me, the two of us, like we always had, sprinting away from the fangirls with a
solid laugh or two. Within minutes we were inside the school’s vast auditorium, Hayato drawing
interested and gaping looks from girls that lurked in every corner of every room we passed on our way
there.
Interested and gaping, that is, until the girls caught sight of me—the girl that he was holding hands
(rather tightly) with—and promptly their adoring faces turned on me with jealous glowers. I was used
to such stares by then, and couldn’t help but snort when I passed them by, squeezing Hayato’s hand
in response to their envy. He would pause when I did that and glance at me bemusedly, but appeared
warm in his intent regardless, my actions, in a sense, spurring him on to get us seated even quicker.
Once we were seated and had effectively ignored the chatter and buzz surrounding the two of us, we
took a quick look around the area, commenting on the layout and size of the high school.
“Oi, Kaho, how many of the kids here are from our middle school?” Hayato asked offhandedly as he
scanned the rows of students around us for familiar faces, me doing the same. I shrugged lightly,
chewing on my lips pensively.
“My guess is as good as yours,” I replied simply, adding a moment later, “though I guess that most of
the people here are from other schools in the district. The only people I recognized so far were
your fans.”
He rolled his eyes at my remark, and I laughed despite his discomfort at me talking about the so-
called “forbidden topic,” so unwanted was the attention that he unwillingly received. I patted him on
the shoulder of his crisp blue blazer, admiring the freshness of it quite openly.
Noting my fascination with his jacket, he scowled briefly, swatting my prying hands away from the
trim. “Yamete,” (2) he mumbled discontentedly, and I giggled again, coyly removing my fidgety
hands from him. He gave me a playful grin once I had detained myself, and I pouted at his slyness.
God did I love him!
We bantered in the same way for a while after until a voice interrupted us and the rest of the
chattering student body, monotonous in its deep, affected bass.
“Irasshaimase (3), new students of Soto Secondary School,” he welcomed in a not-very-welcoming
way at all, his spite of high school students thinly veiled beneath his sneer. “As you all know, the Soto
School’s reputation of excellence precedes it, its history tracing back to the legendary founder, Soto
Hikaru . . .”
His voice began to trail off in my head, my eyes wandering over to Hayato in the midst of my supreme
boredom. I had expected to find him in much the same mood as me, yet was surprised when I saw—
was it even possible?—rapt interest in the lecture.
Rapt, at least, in the sense that he was staring intensely at the stage where the headmaster continued
to give his torturously long speech, Hayato’s eyes fixated on something I hadn’t seen. I followed his
line of vision as best I could, steering my stare towards the left of the speaker’s podium.
When I found his point of interest, I nearly did a double take in shock.
There, sitting stoically in a fold-out chair near the podium, was Shimizu Jun, middle-school
extraordinaire whose feats ranged from being the top student in the class to the top athlete on the
track team. His distinct brown hair was ruffled in the usual way, his deep brown eyes set on no
location in particular as he stared out into the crowd.
I had entirely forgotten about him since summer started—why he was up onstage with the new
headmaster?
More importantly, I thought tensely, why is Hayato looking at him like that?
I reddened when I glanced back and forth between my best friend and Shimizu, remembering
suddenly (and with frightening clarity) that that was not the first time that I had observed Hayato
stare at Shimizu that way. My brow furrowed at the thought, confused at the connection that my mind
had just forged between past and present. My gaze on Shimizu tightened inadvertently as I tried to
unite the memories with what I then saw, my head swimming with ideas that were, for the most part,
upsetting.
“Now, with a special opening ceremony message for everyone, is the current kousoku  (4) of the Soto
freshman class, Shimizu Jun!”
A roar of applause and cat-calls erupted from the new students around me, Shimizu’s name obviously
well-known and his legend popularized throughout the entire district. How, exactly, he had managed
to make himself so famous in his lifetime, I was never sure, but he looked entirely unaffected by the
praise. He simply went up to the podium, smiling naturally and instantly capturing the hearts of all the
female students. I rolled my eyes at the girls’ fawning, ready to make a snide comment to Hayato
about the whole situation.
When my lips opened to speak, however, they were stopped by the pure ardor and admiration that
shone in Hayato’s face, watching Shimizu with a zeal that I had never seen before. I clutched my
chest painfully, a mixture of fear and doubt in my eyes as I stared at him.
What . . . What is this feeling?
I swallowed anxiously, senselessly beginning to speak to him.
“Ne, Hayato . . .” I began, though he didn’t heed my words. I finished the question silently, my
startled gaze fixated on him all the while.
You like Shimizu, don’t you?
---
“Yokatta!” (5)
Hayato’s exclamation of relief snapped me out of my reminiscing, and I rolled my eyes with a small
smile, continuing my task of helping him to catalog the books in his father’s office. He always asked
me for help with those sorts of things, and I couldn’t complain about it; even though the jobs were
boring themselves, being with him wasn’t. He would smile appreciatively at me and make jokes to
pass the time, so I felt at ease even when my mind, like it was then, was in ferment.
“Kaho, this means a lot to me, you know,” he murmured, and I looked at him questioningly, surprised
by his words.
“What do you mean?” I asked, placing the last file under Kozuyama in its place in the desk drawer. He
smiled in response, gazing at me affectionately. I blushed a little at the look, my eyes called to
attention by it.
“It’s a lot less lonely with you here,” he said, “the house just gets too quiet when I’m by myself.” He
looked a little like a kid when he said those things, and I giggled despite his genuineness, Hayato
looking slightly taken aback by the action.
“What? Did I say something funny?” he asked innocently, and I shook my head, my laughing
subsiding as my lips formed a gentle, sincere smile.
“Iie,” I replied softly, touching his hand with the lightest of motions. Sometimes I surprised even
myself with my forwardness. “I thought what you said was really sweet. Arigatou.”
He reddened in embarrassment at being called “sweet,” I suppose, to which I started giggling again.
This time, however, Hayato pouted at my unintentional mockery of his kindness, drawing closer to me
with revenge in his eyes.
“Che, you think you’re real  clever, don’t you, Kaho-chan?” he patronized me with the childish suffix,
and, without warning, tackled me to the carpet below us—as if we were in primary school again.
I fell back with a squeak at the sudden act, falling prey to Hayato’s always-effective “tickle attack”
that worked only too well on me, a girl with more tickle spots than most. I gasped for air between
alternate bouts of laughter and shrieking, trying futilely to push him off of me.
“Ya—Ya—Yameteeeeee!” I whined ineffectively (and while giggling) through his tickling, unaware of
just how entangled the two of us had become since we first started the one-sided and entirely biased
fight. The only noise that reached my ears was his deep, pleasant laughing as he attacked me, the
rumbling in his chest vibrating against my own. I would have blushed at the sensation had I not been
so occupied with trying to fight him off—so occupied, in fact, that I never heard the front door to the
house open and shut.
It was only when I felt the absence of any ticklish tingles did I look at Hayato in question, blinking
upon finding his gaze directed towards the entrance to the room. I followed it, as I so often did, and
my jaw slackened at what met my line of vision.
“O—Otousan!”  (6)
Hayato’s shocked cry, combined with the look of pure stupefaction on his father’s face, made me
unconsciously glance at the state that Hayato and myself currently found ourselves in.
What I observed was . . . well, it was definitely worthy of being stupefied over.
Somehow, during the course of the “tickle fight,” my legs had managed to throw themselves over
Hayato’s shoulders, my hands gripping his biceps, and Hayato’s body leaned over mine in a position
that could only be classified as erotic.
After a two-second “stun-pause,” as I call it, we disentangled ourselves from one another, prostrating
ourselves in front of Hayato’s father in the most extreme form of apology that we knew.
“Moushiwake gozaimasen, Wakamoto-san!”  (7)
“Moushiwake gozaimasen, otousan!”
We lay in front of him like that for what seemed like an eternity; I supposed that he was still in shock
from seeing us at such an awkward  moment.
A loud cough allowed us to finally lift our heads a bit to face him, and the look on his face was a
combination of embarrassment and apprehension.
“Mou, it’s all right,” (8) he told us tiredly, briefly closing his eyes in resignation, “just don’t give me a
shock like that again,onegai.” (9)
Hayato and I immediately consented to this request, bowing fervently in agreement, him especially. If
I were an outsider looking in on the ordeal, I probably would have pissed myself laughing by this
point, but as a participant I had been mortified. As laidback as Hayato’s father was most of the time,
even he had to do a double take upon finding such a scene in his own office, and I couldn’t blame him
in the least. My face was still apple-red out of self-consciousness of the position I’d been discovered
in, so I couldn’t expect Hayato’s father to react any less violently than I had.
I noted then that his father looked over at me curiously, most of the befuddlement from earlier having
(thankfully) left his features.
“Kaho-chan, shouldn’t you be at home? It’s already this late,” he inquired, pointing at the analog clock
hanging on the wall. It clearly read 6:00 P.M., and though I realized then how long I had indeed been
there, I was cut off from answering when he spoke again, his voice far less forgiving.
“Hayato, have you been bothering Kaho-chan again with the work I left for you? What part of the
word independent do you not understand?” he scolded Hayato, who looked away sheepishly, unable to
reply to the castigation. I felt out of place in the suddenly hostile atmosphere, half-smiling to try and
allay the mood.
“D—Daijoubu, Wakamoto-san,” I assured him, “it’s not a bother at all. I came here of my own
volition!” I added to take some of the blame away from Hayato, who looked rather guilty.
His father eyed me curiously after my piece, at which I swallowed in nervousness, but afterwards he
sighed, patting me fondly atop my head.
“You’re a good girl, Kaho-chan,” he said kindly, “but don’t go making up excuses for this bum  of a
son, ne?” He finished with a rather menacing tone towards Hayato, who cowered slightly from his
father’s wrath, and I couldn’t help but smile a little in amusement. Hayato’s father had always treated
me like a daughter, calling me “Kaho-chan” and welcoming me into his home whenever I popped up
out of nowhere (like right then).
I had gotten used to that feeling of being welcomed, of being doted upon by Hayato and his father—I
had grown selfish, wanting to keep such affections all to myself.
Yet when had I forgotten the truth?
Yes, the truth.
He will never love me.
---
It was with that unsavory dose of reality that I came back to my modest-sized home just a few streets
down from Hayato’s apartment, the silence and emptiness of the place not helping my mood. I slipped
my shoes off at the entrance, sighing wearily as I made my way to the kitchen, dumping my
homework for the night onto the table rather unceremoniously.
Why did he have to like guys?
As per usual, I then put some water on the stove to boil for tea and a cup of ramen in the microwave,
my motions mechanical in their monotony. I plopped myself down in one of the newer, Western-styled
kitchen chairs that my mother had bought recently, already used to the higher elevation of the seats.
Quickly after that, my hand found my pencil, and the other the page in my book on which the
homework was located.
Why didn’t I ever notice it?
I stared at the book for what seemed like hours, my eyesight blurring as I did so; only the shrieking of
the teapot awakened me from my trance, though not entirely.
How could I let myself fall in love with him?
I turned off the heat to the stove, my hand grasping the handle of the teapot with a presumedly
strong grip.
Why am I  still  in love with him?
My fingers fumbled suddenly, dropping the pot of scalding-hot water to the wooden floor below. I slid
down against the wooden cabinets until I was crouching away from the spilled liquid, my body curled
in a fetal position. I felt something warm slide down both my cheeks to my chin, my once-blurry eyes
then becoming totally murky with fluid.
My throat constricted and my lips trembled when I realized that my body had been shaking for a long
while, and the tears that flowed from my eyes were painful in their volume. I choked back sobs that I
didn’t want, sobs that I didn’t need—I had wasted so much energy and suffered sleepless nights
already on that tired old topic.
That’s right: it was tired and old. And I was going to be too, if I kept crying over it.
But could I have helped it then? No. Of course not. I was rendered seemingly helpless by my unique
set of circumstances and my lingering denial, though I saw the truth there so plainly before me.
In short, I was stubborn. Not too stubborn to cry—obviously not that—but too stubborn to deal with
what was to come.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “Wait up!”
2 “Stop it” or “Stop.”
3 “Welcome”
4 Best student
5 “Thank goodness!” or “That’s a relief!”
6 “Dad!”
7 “Please forgive us!”
8 “That’s enough” or “OK already”
9 “Please.”
Title of chapter (translated): Past and Present
Author’s Note: I’m a bit disappointed with the lack of reviews for the first chapter, however...there
were some questions left by my one reviewer, Saveage, to whom I am most grateful. Here are the
answers to the inquiries/comments (in bullet form):
--Just wondering-- do you speak Japanese?  No, not at all! Haha. Actually, I’ve just seen so many
subtitled anime and read so many manga that I’ve grown quite used to seeing/hearing Japanese
words being thrown about. I’m very flattered by the question and what it implies, though!
Thanks in general for the advice and the well-written, well-thought out review—it definitely influenced
the way I wrote the second chapter! I very much enjoy readers’ reactions to my stories.
--I also happened to notice about two days after posting the fic that the heroine of the
anime/manga La Corda d’Oro has the name “Kaho” and another central character’s last name in that
series is “Shimizu” as well—I assure you, however, that this was not intentional, just pure coincidence
in its most unlikely form. Strange but true! I promise the next chapter will be filled with drama,
whereas this was more introspective. Until then, ja ne!
CHAPTER 3 PREVIEW:
While struggling to end her unrequited love for Hayato, Kaho is confronted by an even bigger
problem: Shimizu Jun! Why hashe  taken a sudden interest in Kaho, and what does this potentially
mean for her future?
Please, if you liked the fic and would like to see more of my writing in the future, REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 
 
 
Chapter 3: Arasoi
 
 
I was miserable the following day when I woke up, and continued to be so when I met up with Hayato
at the subway station in our area, unable to make myself smile genuinely for him.
“Kaho, you really don’t look well today.”
Tell me something I  don’t  know.
I let out a small sigh, then straightened out my posture a bit, putting on something of a brighter front.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night, but I’m honestly OK.”
At least the first part of what I said was true.
His brow furrowed in worry, as if to physically state that he didn’t believe me.
“Demo . . . you haven’t looked very happy for a while now,” he pointed out as the train pulled up to
our stop, and I nearly jumped through the crowds to get on the transport and away from Hayato’s
prying. It was bad enough that I had to face Hayato after another night spent wide awake and in
constant anxiety over  him, but then to have him question me about something that I  wasn’t even
sure of myself?
The whole mess was making me nauseated before I had even squeezed myself into the suffocating
throngs, Hayato sticking close to me with his hand gripping the pole. His other hand wrapped itself
around me protectively, as it always did, he being more paranoid about hihi  (1) and other
undesirables than me. Though my feelings for him were confused, I still took advantage of what he
offered, again giving into my weakness of letting him take care of me.
As usual, the train ride went without incident, the two of us receiving some curious looks here and
there from passengers unused to such public displays of what they perceived to be intimate affection.
Once we left the station, the school was only a short walk away; nevertheless, Hayato was persistent
in his concerned inquisitiveness.
“Ne, Kaho, you never answered my question,” he prodded, though his tone was still gentle—he
understood my limitations better than anyone else, and knew not to provoke me too much.
I, however, was in no mood to be interrogated.
“Did you ask me a question?”
I felt guilty for countering his sincerity with my caustic response, my mouth shutting quickly after it
had prematurely opened. I looked up to see his reaction, and wanted to grimace at the childlike
despondency that was displayed on his features. I had never intended to sound so snappy and bitter;
my mood just happened to be terrible, and he had pushed the wrong button at the wrong time.
“Listen, Hayato—”
“Daijoubu, Kaho! I shouldn’t have bothered you—you’re obviously not in a good mood. Gomen.”
My sad attempt to apologize for my rudeness was interrupted by Hayato’s fake cheerfulness, and as
we approached the school with little more to say to one another, I felt a distance settle between us.
---
Silence pervaded the atmosphere around Hayato and me as we went to our respective lockers and
changed shoes, the awkwardness stifling. A few girls, mostly friends of Hayato, greeted me on their
way to homeroom, and I greeted them back as best I could, though I probably came off as little more
than condescending. I shut my locker tiredly, waiting for Hayato though I knew we wouldn’t speak
much.
As expected, he came around the corner of the guys’ lockers, stared at me for a moment, then came
up to my side, walking with me to our class without ever saying a word.
Our mutual quietude annoyed me more than I was willing to admit; if there was one person in the
world that I hated being given the silent treatment by, it was Hayato.
As usual, we arrived in 1-D just as all the girls ran screaming out of it, their cries of “Shimizu-
kuuuuuuun!”  nearly overrunning us.
I noted the familiar jump in Hayato’s step as we found our way to our seats, him choosing to stand
beside me not out of friendliness, but out of his adoration for Shimizu.
I felt more disgusted than usual by the pretty boy’s name, the combination of the “mini-fight” plus my
distress from the night before becoming a dreadful mix. Unconsciously my daily glare at Shimizu
turned into a horrific glower, all of my usual troubles having culminated into one fierce expression of
unwarranted abhorrence.
I thought for a split second that Shimizu had stared back up at me—when I looked again, however, he
had already entered the school, my eyes seemingly playing tricks on me.
I glanced up at Hayato to see if I was alone in my suspicions, and from the unchanged look of
infatuation there, I supposed that I was. If anyone at all had noticed that popular gaki  (2) looking our
way, it would have been him. I quickly looked away when he moved to return my stare, and in doing
so I unwittingly continued our almost nonexistent skirmish.
---
It wasn’t often that Hayato and I were at a loss as to what to say to one another; usually we were in
well enough spirits by lunchtime to talk normally, even if we had gotten into a (highly unlikely) fight
earlier that same day. Knowing that I was the guilty party of us two was an even more unfortunate
scenario, as I was not particularly excelled at apologizing or resolving conflicts. In fact, I usually made
them worse with my sometimes sadistic sense of humor and my wrathful tongue, though I rarely
exhibited such acerbity with Hayato.
That is, I never needed to: the self-defense mechanism of coldness only turned on when faced with
situations far beyond my control.
And despite what I faced then, it was not so bad as to cause me great aggravation; I had a feeling
that Hayato would come around by the end of the day and everything would be settled again. I
seemed to have forgotten, by that point, much of the worry of the night previous, that morning’s
events discouraging my mind from dwelling on inner battles for very long.
“Watanabe-san? Morioka-sensei wants to see you.”
I stared a little longer at my mess of Japanese literature notes before shaking my head briefly,
realizing that someone (and it hadn’t been Hayato) had spoken to me.
“Gomen, what was that again?” I asked blankly, and Takahashi Nami simply looked at me in
frustration before repeating herself.
“Morioka-sensei wants to see you.”
I nodded and said a small thanks to her before making my way towards the front of the classroom,
noticing (with content) that Hayato’s head turned and followed my every move on the way there.
By the time I reached Morioka’s desk, I could feel his eyes burning into my back.
“Is there something you needed from me, Morioka-sensei?” I asked politely, masking the elation that
fluttered within me from Hayato’s fixed attentions.
Mr. Morioka seemed a bit puzzled for a moment by my presence before remembering his purpose,
smiling suddenly.
“Ah! Watanabe! You have cleaning duty today, don’t you?” He inquired rhetorically, and I almost
winced as his words reminded me that I indeed was in charge of seisou (3) that day, as I was every
Thursday. I nodded meekly in reply, the idea of staying after to clean erasing the cheeriness of just a
few seconds before.
Mr. Morioka pointed to a pile of what looked like club advertisements on the far corner of his desk,
staring at me purposefully. “I need you to take those to room 2-A sometime during your duty,” he
directed, and though I resented the extra task, I knew I couldn’t refuse a teacher’s orders. “Make sure
you leave them on the sensei’s desk, ne?”
I nodded again, and then politely excused myself from the entirely disheartening conversation. I was
about to sigh in defeat when I felt a strong hand grab my own, and instinctively I knew who it was
without asking.
Without thinking, my gaze snapped to meet Hayato’s, and I smiled so warmly and brightly at him that
he looked startled, though relieved by my change in mood. Perhaps in a conciliatory spirit, he softly
released my arm, slowly coming to a standing position in front of me.
When we hugged, it was so natural and unaffected that I could’ve cared less about the shock and awe
we caused around the room and outside of it, Endo and her stalker-like companions in near-hysterics
over the scene they encountered. My arms easily wrapped around his lower torso, my eyes blissfully
closed as my head rested on his shoulder. My hands, after pausing only momentarily, moved from his
lower to middle back, settling there for a while.
His arms had found their way comfortably around my shoulders and neck, embracing me in that loving
manner for quite some time—how long exactly, I couldn’t be sure, since I ignored all sounds and
movements besides those of Hayato’s steadily beating heart and rhythmic stroking of my hair (which,
might I add, was in clear view of Endo’s clan). Rather than being sensual or passionate, his actions
were . . . pacifying.
“Ahem . . . Wakamoto? Watanabe? Class begins now.”
We both flushed in embarrassment from Morioka’s chiding tone, though there was not a giggle to be
heard in the room. Mostly just pure old shock lingered in our classmates’ eyes and expressions, and I
wasn’t surprised to see Endo and her “friends” still staring at us from the doorway (despite being at
least a couple minutes late for their own classes). I held back a smirk of triumph, flashing Hayato a
pleasant smile before sitting back in my own seat, ignoring the jealous stares that followed me there.
Like I said, I can be pretty sadistic sometimes.
---
“Ehhhh?  It’s your turn to do seisou today?”
Hayato’s groan of disappointment indicated to me that he had probably been planning on asking me
for help with his dad’s work again, and I stifled a chuckle, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Nani? (4) Don’t act so surprised, Hayato,” I scolded playfully, packing the last of my textbooks into
my bag. “Just go home and finish filing for your ’tousan, ne?”
He blinked, wide-eyed and silent for a moment.
“How did you know I had to file for ’tousan?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at his naiveté, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “How could I not  know?
After what happened yesterday, it was obvious that he was gonna give you more work as
punishment.” I grinned a little at first, but as the memories of that day returned to my mind, my
expression quickly faded. I hid the change in mood from him as well as I could, and fortunately he
didn’t notice it.
“Ah, sou desu. I guess it was pretty obvious, ne?” He laughed at himself, giving me a generous smile
as well. “Well, I’m gonna head home now. Mata ashita!”  (5)
He waved in parting, and I returned the gesture, watching him until he had exited the school through
one of the side doors. I closed my locker with an end-of-the-day sigh, tucking stray bangs behind my
ear out of habit. I made my way back to 1-D from my locker’s location at the other end of the school,
trying especially hard to disregard the countless number of stares that I received as I walked by my
lonesome.
There were stares of envy, of awe, of hatred—mostly of the first and last kind, and all from girls. I
didn’t expect any less after the spectacle that Hayato and I had made out of ourselves earlier that
day, but the severity with which I was observed was simply awful. I hadn’t felt so insecure and alone
since middle school, when Hayato had been my only friend and the girls’ nastiness was at an all-time
high. The only difference between middle and secondary, I suppose, was the guile through which
Hayato’s “fans” masked their infinite detestation of me.
In middle school, they had been much more open and taunting with their emotions; as it was then, in
secondary school, they managed to convert their hate into cloyingness, displaying their scorn for me
by using me for information about Hayato.
The thing was, though, that I never really disguised my own feelings on the matter: I despised them,
wholly and without hesitation. It showed in my speech, in my tone, in my expressions, and, most of
all, in my blatant unconcern over being seen with Hayato on a daily, personal basis.
That’s not to say, of course, that their little gabs and looks didn’t affect me at  all. Sure, they got to
me sometimes—they would get to anyone, I think—but by then, it was a natural cycle.
As they say: same shit, different day.
---
It was already 5:00 P.M. by the time I finally finished cleaning Morioka’s damn room by myself, the
other girl who had cleaning duties with me evidently skipping them out of spite. I would have been
pissed off about being there so late had I not become so tired of the monotony of sweeping the floors
and cleaning the chalkboards, not to mention copying papers and doing extra work for Morioka that
really wasn’t supposed  to be part of my job.
Speaking of which . . . didn’t he mention something else  that I have to do?
I spotted the perfectly-arranged pile of club ads that Morioka had described during lunch, wrinkling my
nose in distaste at the prospect of doing yet another crap task for him. I placed the relatively chalk-
free board erasers back on the board railing, rolling my eyes as I slung my book bag over my shoulder
with one arm and scooped up the papers with the other. I readjusted them in my arms shortly after,
balancing them against my upper abdomen as I walked towards the door. Lastly, I withdrew the keys
to the room from my pocket, exiting the class and locking the door behind me with ease.
Thankful for the short distance between the freshman homerooms and the freshmen teachers’ office, I
dropped the keys on Morioka’s desk there, entering and excusing myself as politely as possible.
Staring down at the pile of papers, I faintly recalled Morioka mentioning room 2-A as the drop-off, and
I walked down the stairs until I reached the room, finding it somewhat strange that freshmen
homerooms were a level above the upperclassmen’s.
“Sumimasen,” (6) I excused myself again, seemingly to no one, as I slid open the door to the room
with a bowed head, preparing to sigh at the never-ending day.
Then I looked up.
Shimizu.
My eyes nearly popped out of my head as I gawked, dumbfounded at my oblivious rival, him having
been engrossed in some sort of assignment or other before my intrusion. I could hardly believe that
he was there, and that there was no ploy or work of magic afoot to trick me into believing an illusion.
“Ah, ano . . . gomen,” I apologized hurriedly, attempting to at least retain the visage of normalcy as I
walked towards the desk of whatever teacher taught there, faintly aware of the fact that he  was
watching me intently and with no small surprise of his own. As I set the papers down with a small
weight on top to keep them there, his voice broke through the thick tension in the room.
“Who are you?”
I was taken aback by the blunt and almost rude inquiry; I hadn’t expected it from someone who I
didn’t really “know,” to say the least. Lost for words, I said only what I could think of off the top of my
head.
“Sorry?”
He was clearly annoyed by the response, which puzzled me even more. His chocolate-brown eyes
stared at me accusingly, as if to assess my guilt without me even knowing my crime.
“I just want to know your name.”
There was a viperous quality to his demand that made it all the more threatening to me, and while
apprehensive of thebishounen, I certainly was not intimidated. As my defense mechanism snapped
roughly on, I felt compelled to answer him in the same tone with which he had assaulted me.
“And what business is it of yours to know my name?”
He was unfazed by my strong resistance, my reply spurring him on even more zealously than before.
He got up from the desk where he previously sat, drawing nearer to me in his fit of passion. I
unconsciously took a few cautious steps back, keeping a space of about three meters between us.
“I think I ought to have the right to know the name of the person that hates my guts, don’t you?”
His counter surprised me, so much so that I was silent for a few moments, my brow furrowing in
confusion. How in the worldcould he have known about my secret spite of him?
“Gomen ne, I’m not quite sure what you mean—”
“Onegai, spare me the innocent bit,” he interrupted in exasperation, his look turning entirely sour.
“Did you honestly think that I wouldn’t notice someone glaring at me every morning  from the same
window as if their life depended on it?” He laughed harshly at my blank expression, continuing his
tirade with a warning scowl. “Every day I wonder, ‘Why does that girl hate me so much?’ and ‘What
have I ever done to her?’  without any answers. "But,” he said with a frown of distaste, “now that
you’re right here in front of me, I think I deserve some.”
If he hadn’t approached the whole mess of a situation with such a sense of entitlement and
indignation as he did, perhaps I wouldn’t have gotten as mad and defensive as I did then—that, at
least, was the explanation I provided myself in my own conscious attempt to discredit him afterwards.
I could feel my lips tug gradually downwards as he spoke, at once feeling both guilty for making him
believe that I hated him (which, in reality, I didn’t—not to that extent, at least) and infuriated by his
contemptuous attitude towards me. It was a confusing thing: I could sympathize with his confusion
and resulting resentment, yet I hated being spoken down to or insulted so vehemently by someone
that I truly did not know!
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said through partially-gritted teeth, restraining
myself from cursing at him. I was in no position to judge him harshly, really—though I wouldn’t admit
it at the time, the confrontation had been solely my fault.
He took another step closer to me upon hearing my point-blank denial, his scowl, if possible,
worsening.
“Usotske,” (7) he seethed, but I only returned his frightening glower, composing myself to display my
lack of fear.
“Yeah, you just keep on calling me that—not that it’ll make much of a difference to me, aho,” (8) I
spat uncompromisingly, wanting desperately to feel some pride in my words.
Yet there was no pride there, no satisfaction to be found in my brashness. All I had done was
complicate an increasingly unpleasant situation, and as soon as I had insulted him so terribly, I felt
rather empty inside. In an attempt to conceal my misdoings and deflect justly-dealt criticism, I had
crossed all the lines of good conduct, reducing myself to name-calling and childish bickering.
I turned around, gloom settling on my features as I moved towards the door, too ashamed of myself
to face him. In the ensuing pause, I felt his eyes in my back, even as I stood at the door to leave. As I
took my first exiting step, I heard his bitter parting words.
“Mata ashita, Watanabe Kahoko.”
-----------------------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 Lecher
2 Brat
3 Cleaning (duty)
4 “What?”
5 “See you tomorrow!”
6 “Excuse me.”
7 “Liar.”
8 “Asshole”
Title of chapter (translated): Conflict or (alternatively) Rivalry
Author’s Note: Wheee! This was a fun chapter to write . . . and not just for the last few pages, haha!
I’m having too much of a good time writing this fic, even if not many people are reviewing—I hope
that fact changes after this chapter! It is designed, as my TWO reviewers have mentioned, like a
shoujo manga, and that is (I assure you) entirely intentional. I may not fully know where this fic is
going, but I will stay true to the shoujo spirit! Oh, and yeah, I WILL explain how Shimizu knows
Kaho’s name, ha!
Thanks again to my two reviewers, Saveage and Ayakaishi Fei!
CHAPTER 4 PREVIEW:
While still puzzling and, consequently, panicking over the unexpected showdown with Shimizu Jun,
Kaho is continually confronted and taunted by him! Can she keep Hayato’s secret and manage to ward
off her unknowing rival in love?
Please, if you like the fic and would like to see more of my writing in the future, REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 
 
Chapter 4: Kyouken
 
 
 
“Mata ashita, Watanabe Kahoko.”
The pencil in my hand snapped in half as I heard Shimizu’s insufferable last words to me from the day
before replay in my head like a broken record. I felt altogether agitated and disconcerted from the fact
that he somehow knew my name without me saying anything; I wondered, subconsciously, if it would
have bothered me as much had he said it in a less mocking tone.
I grumbled in frustration and overall disgruntlement, chucking my worthless pencil in a nearby trash
can before continuing to burn holes into my biology homework with a furious stare. Hayato and I had
reached the school earlier than anticipated that morning, and with time to blow before Shimizu made
his grand entrance, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.
To be sure, I wouldn’t give the gaki my usual venomous glare from the window—that, if anything,
would definitely be out—but how would I avoid him? The “name revelation” that he had provided me
the day previous had been more than a little troubling; the aggravation that had plagued me that
night when I had attempted  to complete the biology lab had carried through to the present, when I
still sat at my desk in 1-D, silently fuming and unable to finish that same damn homework.
Obviously, Hayato noticed my peevish mood, though he said little. Perhaps it was the memory of our
recent squabble that kept him from asking too much; whatever it was, I was thankful for his relative
quietude on the matter. The last person I needed to “discuss” all that had happened with was, sad but
true, Hayato.
8:15.
My eyes flickered over to the clock above the door to the class at the exact time that the girls ran out,
some screaming while others silently (but forcefully) rushed to worship their (not-yet-arrived) idol.
I couldn’t even bring myself to roll my eyes at the sight as I always did, so caught up in the thought
that a world of problems awaited me with his  arrival. I did my best to look away from the window,
placing my head in my palms to better end any lingering, sick curiosity that I might have had.
“Kaho? Daijoubu? You’re not feeling sick, are you?”
I could have grimaced upon hearing Hayato’s concerned, gentle tone, those soft dark chocolate eyes
staring at me imploringly. I shook my head with a forced smile, unconsciously lowering my bent arms
as I did so.
“I just need to finish this lab . . . I forgot to do it last night,” I lied, though it wasn’t altogether untrue.
I had been rather distracted, after all.
He looked surprised by my answer, smiling teasingly.
“Watanabe Kahoko  forgetting to do her homework? Surely, I must have heard wrong,” he joked,
extending an ear in my direction for emphasis.
I rolled my eyes lightly at that corny quip, though I only did such to appease Hayato.
In reality, hearing my full name spoken for the second time in two days was anything but amusing,
especially since I quite vehemently hated my real first name. It was a dislike that I had never told to
anyone, not even to Hayato, but one that, nonetheless, was stronger within me than ever before.
I only wanted to be called Kaho, because Kaho  was the only name that Hayato had called me by.
“Oi! Wakamoto! Some girl outside is asking for you.”
Hayato and I turned to the door at the same time, spotting the girl in question—a small, fragile-
looking, and fairly innocent freshman with bright blue eyes—and exchanged somewhat knowing looks
not a moment later.
“Early-morning confession, ne?” I remarked in jest, though the defeated sigh that followed my quiet
words told me immediately that he would have to reject yet another willing female.
I also knew, however, that he had been looking forward to Shimizu’s arrival just as eagerly as those
girls that gathered in hordes by the front entrance to the school, and that rejecting the girl, as cruel as
it sounds, would interrupt his small but precious period of admiring from afar.
I watched him walk towards that overly-expectant girl—that nameless face that would soon join the
countless dozens of her peers that had all been rejected by Hayato. Yet I felt no pity for her, nor for
anyone else that confessed to him; perhaps I had been so jaded and self-pitying by that point that I
could no longer offer any sympathy to others that had been or were in similar positions to mine.
Once he exited the room and slid the door behind him, the complaints of the guys in the class began,
one egotistical, testosterone-driven male echoing the other in a choir of jealous, hormonal teenagers.
“Chikusho! (1) How the hell does Wakamoto get all those damn girls?!”
“Sou, and they’re all fuckin’ hot or cute, too!”
“But he rejects them all, man! What a fuckin’ waste!”
“It is a waste, demo . . .” the leader of the pack paused, smirking a little, “we should be thanking him
for all the girls he’s leftus, ne?”
I nearly scoffed at the comment and the consensus that followed it, all agreeing wholeheartedly that
Hayato was to be praised rather than condemned for his “strange” choice in women, a.k.a. me.
Unconsciously, I turned my head away from the bottomless pit of megalomania that existed in the
classroom, looking out the window again. If I had been actually thinking  at that time, I supposed that
I would have realized the sight that would greet me on the ground.
Razor-sharp, turbulent cocoa irises stared at me with such intensity that I almost fell back in my chair,
the shock of seeing himstriking me to my very core. I could hear his voice once again in my head,
unable to silence it and unable to turn myself away from his powerful gaze.
For a time, we stared at each other in that way—him forcefully and I wide-eyed—before he cut off the
connection, effortlessly continuing on his way.
When I settled myself back in my seat, I breathed out to calm myself down; I felt uneasy, wondering
how long I had held his look. I didn’t notice when Hayato came back into the room, his voice just
barely breaking through my thoughts.
“Kaho, really, is there something wrong?”
I blinked, furrowing my brow in confusion.
“Iie. Doushite?” (2)
“Your face is red.”
---
I had my left palm pressed against my cheek for the periods that followed that morning’s mysteries,
still embarrassed over Hayato’s words.
Your face is red.
I felt it flush even then upon remembering the simple sentence, not wanting to comprehend its
implications. I could barely remember specific events then—only the feeling of what had occurred
between me and Shimizu stuck out in my memory, whatever that had been.
“All right! Break for lunch, minna,” (3)
Mr. Morioka concluded the English class with his usual casualness, and I was glad that there were no
surprise seisou  duties to be done that day. I closed my book, stretching my limbs lightly before
retrieving my lunch from my bag. It was the usual bentothat I made for myself every morning: rice,
meat, and whatever else I felt like stuffing in it. I wasn’t the pickiest person, and as long as the food
filled me up, I was content.
Well, content of stomach, that is.
Before I opened my lunch to chow down, however, I reached into my bag again to obtain my hand
disinfectant—and found it nowhere within my grasp. I rummaged for a bit, though I had little success,
and by the time Hayato came by I decided to give up on the futile search.
“Looking for something?” He asked innocently, and I sighed, shrugging.
“I think I lost my hand lotion—I’m gonna go wash my hands in the bathroom,” I told him, parting from
our usual spot before excusing myself (with Morioka’s permission) from the room.
Shortly after stepping out, I found myself in front of Hayato’s “fan-clan,” as I called them. Endo,
always the leader type, was ahead of the throng, eyeing me with suspicious curiosity. Eager to end
the conflict before it started, I smiled (albeit insincerely) briefly at her and the other girls, nodding in
acknowledgement.
“Sumimasen,” I pardoned myself quickly, resolving to take the long route to the downstairs bathroom
and circumvent the freshmen girls. Endo and her followers watched me closely as I brushed past them
with my head held high, though none of them returned my niceties. They must have been too
surprised to see me without Hayato to say anything, I supposed.
Thankful that most of the students were confined to their homerooms during the lunch period, I
walked with relative ease down the main stairway, wondering if it had truly been necessary to go such
a long way just to wash my hands. I was feeling rather hungry by that point despite the unappetizing
appearance of my self-made meal, willing to wolf down anything so long as it resembled food.
It was doubly unfortunate, then, that as I arrived on the first floor, miserably empty of stomach, I
happened to greet the very face of the man that had paralyzed me that morning.
Shimizu.
I swallowed anxiously upon seeing his equally surprised features, wanting to move yet not knowing
how. I felt my heartbeat accelerate rapidly in my chest, so taken aback from seeing him yet again in
so short a time. My lips opened slightly, as if to speak; quickly afterwards, however, they closed
again, perhaps understanding that no words could be formed on them.
Shimizu recovered from his shock far better than I had, composing himself in an instant. He wore a
fairly tense expression, though there was some unsettling humor in it as well.
“Konbanwa, Watanabe-san.” (4)
He said it so simply and directly that I immediately snapped out of my nervous panic, his
overconfident voice suddenly bringing to mind my unanswered questions from the day before. My
brow furrowed in unresolved anger, my fists tightening in response to my change in mood.
“How do you know my name?” I asked bluntly, glaring sharply at him to further communicate my
displeasure.
He snorted at my harsh tone, answering, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” with an infuriating smirk.
I bristled at his nonchalance, walking towards him with relative speed and ire. Still keeping a
measured distance between us of about four meters, I scowled, just about at my breaking point.
“Sou ka. If that’s how it’s going to be from now on, then I guess I can’t do anything, ne?” I remarked
spitefully, eyeing him with intense vitriol. He made no move to reply, so I took that as the smallest of
victories, my head lifting itself a bit higher.
And with that, I stormed off towards the bathroom, rushing past him with little regard as to how (or
when) he would respond to me.
---
Returning to a classroom filled with the likes of Endo Ai and her companions was not  the most ideal
sight to encounter in my already irritated mood, all of them huddled around Hayato’s desk as if they
were discussing battle strategies (which, in truth, didn’t sound all too unlikely for them). In my volatile
state, I was prone to push past them rudely to get back to my seat, but Hayato, always acting in my
best interest, managed to stop me.
“Ah, Kaho! You’re back.”
It was more of a statement to draw the girls’ attentions away from himself and onto me than a sort of
welcoming cheer, and had I been closer to him, I’m sure that I would have punched him for doing
such a thing. I hated having to be the proverbial “elephant in the room” that loomed over everyone’s
thoughts and actions, and, seeing the detestation directed at me from Hayato’s fans, my mouth
almost twitched in annoyance.
“K—Konbanwa, minna,” I said with some hesitation, wanting little more than to put all the girls into a
giant slingshot and fling them as far away from myself as possible. I nearly grinned at the impossible
notion, though held it in for propriety’s sake.
The girls, for the most part, recognized the forced gesture on my part, muttering “Konbanwa” or
simply nodding in acknowledgement, as painful as the actions were for them. With little conflict
amongst them, they created a little path between themselves for me to get back to my desk, Endo
smiling in her artificial way.
“Konbanwa, Watanabe-chan! Ah, gomen . . . you don’t mind if I call you Watanabe-chan, do you?”
She asked sugar-sweetly, hands clasped in front of her adoringly.
I tried not to look incredulous, wondering what Endo was high on, exactly.
Would I mind if you had sex with Hayato right in  front  of me?
In perhaps my greatest feat of strength and sheer willpower ever, I gave her a half-smile of pure
insincerity, wincing somewhat.
“I—Iie, Endo-san.” I lied weakly, and I was pretty sure that everyone saw it, including that dumb bitch
Endo.
But she put on a false pretence of happiness regardless, smiling brightly. “Ureshii desu!” (5) she
chirped, and, once satisfied with the compliant echoing of her falsities by her group, her affected
cheerfulness turned into pure smugness. I only returned the look with a crooked smile, letting her
pass thereafter.
Hayato looked sheepish as I sat back down, and I nearly rolled my eyes at the expression, wanting to
smack him upside the head for placing me in that precarious position. Before he could even manage to
make a half-assed apology for the incident, I held up my index finger to silence him, closing my eyes
in vexation.
“Just . . . don’t bother, ne? I’d rather we forget about it and move on,” I said wearily, opening my
bento and ignoring his fidgeting figure next to me. He obviously felt badly about what he’d done (just
as he should have, mind you), and, being Hayato, couldn’t contain his desire to make amends A.S.A.P.
“Kaho—”
I gave him a warning glare, but upon seeing his discomfiture over it, I restrained myself from silencing
him in any other way, pretending to go about my business again with my lunch. I secretly hoped that
he wouldn’t take the hint to shut up, defying my temper and apologizing despite my wishes that he
stop.
Needless to say, I wasn’t disappointed.
“Gomen nasai, Kaho. I really mean that, too.”
He looked wounded when I didn’t respond right away to his apology, but I quickly gave in, smiling
lightly as I put down my chopsticks next to the bento.
“I know, Hayato,” I told him kindly, touching his open palm that lied on my desktop. “I’ve just been in
a bad mood all day, so when those girls started making those faces at me . . . well, I wasn’t exactly
thrilled about it, you know,” I remarked, and he laughed a little, nodding in agreement.
“Hai hai,” he said between chuckles, “I could tell that from a mile away.” He smiled good-naturedly
after that comment, and I couldn’t help but laugh a bit myself, feeling better despite my overall sour
mood. I thought that perhaps I could let go of my apprehensions about Shimizu and Endo go, if only
for a short while, letting myself enjoy the attentions of Hayato for however long they would last.
There was, nevertheless, a sense of foreboding in the back of my mind.
---
Once the last bell of the day had rung, ending my (in the end) strangely pleasant school experience, I
waited by the door of 1-B for Hayato to finish up his conversations with a few of his basketball
teammates. The season was well underway already for the boys’ team by the beginning of December,
and, as the circumstances usually were, I didn’t see him too much after school. The few instances
during which he had invited me over to help him out with his father’s  work had actually been rare,
chance occasions, and definitely not in the norm.
In fact, while standing there waiting, I couldn’t help but feel envious of Hayato’s teammates, free to
talk with him and hang out with him whenever they liked without consequence. They all looked so
carefree, patting him on the back and punching him playfully, and Hayato fit right in. He winced when
the team captain ruffled his messy black hair, laughed when a joke was randomly cracked, celebrated
along with the rest of them when they won a game.
No restraints, no restrictions—he really looked handsome there without me.
“I’ll walk you to the station before practice starts, ne?”
I looked up at his taller frame, smiling though I shook my head. I had changed my mind about
waiting, after all.
“Daijoubu, Hayato. You just go to practice, OK? I think I can at least get to the station by myself,” I
said with a raised eyebrow, and he laughed, slugging an arm around my shoulder affectionately. I was
somewhat surprised at the action, staring up at him with a quirked grin.
“I know. I guess I was just worrying for no reason, huh?” He said gently, and gave me a small, one-
armed hug before sending me off. “Ja ne, Kaho!” (6)
I smiled in return, right outside the door when I suddenly heard one of Hayato’s teammates, probably
Higa Taiji, say something that stopped me in my tracks.
“Oi, Wakamoto, what is it with you and that onna? (7) You’re not seriously going out with her, are
you?” He asked in his usual abrasive, blunt manner, and I clutched the shoulder strap of my schoolbag
tightly to my chest, hating the small silence that followed Higa’s impudent query. Some of the other
teammates, however, soon joined in on the inquisition, and I could tell, even with my back to the
room, that they had crowded considerably around Hayato.
“Sou desu, Wakamoto! We’ve all been wondering that for a while now.” Another voice rejoined, and I
could tell immediately that it was the teammate of Hayato’s that he had told me he didn’t particularly
like: Fuwa Osami. The guy was a good player all right, but, as Hayato said, an even better asshole.
After he spoke, there was a period of quiet; my heart raced as we all waited for Hayato’s reply, and
when it came, I felt some relief.
“What’s wrong with her? I’ve known Kaho since primary school—I don’t see the big deal here,” he told
them simply, and they all sighed in exasperation, further irritating my stock-still frame outside.
“It’s not that it’s a big deal, Wakamoto,” Higa said matter-of-factly, “it’s just that, as your friends, it
seems like you could do better, you know.”
If I were younger, I probably would have cried at hearing something so thoughtless and unnecessarily
mean. Luckily, as a girl who had already lived through such harmful commentary, the offense was not
quite as hurtful as it would have been before.
It still stings, though.
I could sense Hayato’s growing, innocent confusion over their words, and it was affirmed by his reply.
“Do better in what?”
Another round of groans resounded before Fuwa spoke up again, his voice grating on my ears. “What
do you think, Wakamoto? Watanabe’s just about as plain and boring a girl as you can get. Why stick
around her when you have all these hot chicks chasing after you every day?”
There was a longer pause this time, and I could feel my heart slowly being crushed as the seconds
passed by.
“I stay with her because she’s my friend, aho. If you want those ‘hot chicks’ so bad, then how about
you fuck off and take some off my back?”
Hayato’s uncharacteristic spat of indignation threw both his teammates and me for a loop, and mostly
for the same reasons. He wasn’t exactly prone to cursing off or getting angry on the same basis that I
was, nor was he ever that defensive (at least to my knowledge) about the nature of our relationship.
Usually, I was the one getting annoyed over such questions as those just asked of Hayato, and he the
one to answer such impertinent queries as politely as possible. I wondered what had set him off.
Not that I minded being so well-protected—it was more comforting than I would admit.
Higa laughed in an irritatingly loud and obnoxious way, giving Hayato a big clap on the back. “Sugoi
desu, Wakamoto! (8) I didn’t think that you could get angry!”
A couple other unidentified voices from the team that hadn’t said much before laughed as well, though
Fuwa’s voice was notably absent from their joviality. I suspected that Hayato’s anger had been too
intimidating to properly reply to, in any case.
At least partially satisfied with how the events had unfolded, I loosened my grip on the strap,
releasing a long-held breath of anxiety as I walked away from 1-B and made my way towards a side
staircase to my left. Though my mind was sated by Hayato’s strong and appropriately irate response,
my heart still felt the pain of his “friends’” remarks, thinking on their accuracy.
Indeed, when I had heard them call me “plain” and “boring,” I had wanted to disagree with their
assessment. Any girl would—denial was, after all, a female’s strongest asset.
Yet as much as I wanted  to forget their words and move on, I found it literally impossible; after years
of feeling unworthy and unattractive, their comments only served to reaffirm my low self-esteem. I
remembered, as they had taunted Hayato, the sick sensation that always stirred within me whenever I
looked into a mirror or attempted to put on make-up. That notion, once brought up, was difficult to
ignore or destroy altogether.
Long and straight black hair; aloof and hollow dark brown eyes; a lanky frame with no real curves to
speak of. To be short: nothing extraordinary.
I was depressingly average-looking, and when this fact was pointed out, I felt the worse for it. Next to
Hayato, who looked like Adonis in comparison to his male peers, my fairly normal looks were
scrutinized like no one else’s, and the pressure was beginning to get to me. I wondered had I not been
associated with Hayato, if I would have had the chance for a normal school life? A normal love life?
There were plenty of girls in the school that looked no better than me, yet had more friends and more
luck romantically than I ever would.
The thought, frankly, was discouraging.
I was at the bottom of the staircase before I even realized it, my eyes glued to the floor and my
shuffling feet. The exiting double doors stood in front of me; after a moment of standing there, caught
up in my own world of self-loathing, I moved forward, my head lifting itself up as well.
“Well hello again, Watanabe-san.”
I stopped abruptly upon recognizing the voice that interrupted my exit, turning to my right to find,
yet again, Shimizu Jun.
I sighed exhaustedly, tired of his and, for that matter, everyone else’s games.
“What do you want, Shimizu?” I asked pointedly, staring at him in such a way that he knew I wasn’t in
the mood for his crap. He seemed to understand the underlying message of my impatient question,
but teased me anyway.
“Well, nothing really, if you’re in such a bad mood,” he said, advancing on me, “though I admit that
I was  surprised that you knew my name without, you know, me telling it to you.”
He was clearly toying with me then—I, unfortunately, was too clouded of mind to see that
straightaway.
“How could I not  know your damn name, baka? I may not be a part of your ‘fan club,’ but I’m
certainly not deaf either.” I took his bait without knowing it, and he chuckled, crossing his arms
amusedly.
“I can see that,” he quipped acridly, and through his humor I saw, again, the bitterness that he didn’t
bother hiding from me. “I only wonder how, seeing as you’re such an intelligent girl, you never noticed
the little book that always sticks out of your, excuse my saying this, poorly-secured  side pocket.”
I paused for a second after he said that—I hadn’t expected him to actually say anything of significance
then, but when he did, my eyes unconsciously observed the popped magnetic button on the very side
pocket Shimizu had spoken of.
Indeed, just as he’d said, my small but hefty assignment book was peeking out of the unbuttoned
pocket, with—and when I saw this, everything made much more sense afterwards—my name clearly
scrawled across the top part of it.
I reddened in embarrassment, shoving the incriminating evidence of my ignorance back down into the
pocket as Shimizu nearly brayed in spite of me, passing me in the same casual, unruffled manner with
which he spoke. When he reached the door to leave, he threw up a small wave to condescend me
even in parting.
“Mata ashita, Watanabe-san.”
---
Obviously, I was infuriated by his unkind cheekiness; of all the things that had gone wrong that day,
that incident had been one of the worst. To be humiliated so openly and without remorse—UGH! That
was, truly, about the only sound that I could use to sum up my emotions just then.
If I have to deal with that shit every day, I might as well not even go to school anymore.
The gloom that accompanied that thought made me want to get out of that miserable place as fast as
my feet could carry me; considering the sluggish state of said feet, however, any suggestion of speed
was basically moot.
I dragged myself out of the school through a different door than the one he had used, pondering, as I
left, how I would everbe rid of Shimizu Jun.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “Dammit!”
2 “Why?”
3 everyone
4 Good afternoon
5 “I’m so happy!”
6 Informal “Goodbye!” or “See you later!”
7 woman
8 “Wow!” or “Awesome!”
Title of chapter (translated): Humility
Author’s Note: . . . my, Shimizu’s quite a dick, isn’t he? Haha! I didn’t intend for him to be so ill-
humored, but I suppose it’s more fun this way, isn’t it? Plus, it’s not as though Kaho’s being any
better! Hehe. I apologize for the delay of the release—I was reading all week for school, and because
this chapter has been the longest one yet, it took me longer than usual to complete. Expect the
coming chapters to be arriving on a weekly or biweekly basis from now on, and, though this one was
released on a Monday, the others will probably be out on Thursdays or Fridays. I am very thankful for
the good sum of hits the fic has been getting, and also the support of all my reviewers/readers! I
appreciate any critique or thought that yous guys have! Haha. Oh, and before I forget, a few answers
to reader questions:
- Shimizu- is it his first name or last name? Sticking with the “otaku” tradition, I always put last
names before first in my fics, and because Kaho is more of a formal and traditional-type girl (and
because she doesn’t particularly like him) she always calls him by his last name, Shimizu. Don’t expect
for her to acknowledge him as “Jun” for a while, ha! Oh, and you'll notice that she always calls Endo Ai
simply "Endo," also on account of both disliking her and upkeeping politeness.
- I must be honest that I would prefer a few descriptons on Hayato's features...  I tried to provide a
few in this chapter, but my overall excuse for not mentioning them in earlier chapters is simply this: in
real life, how often does a person really think about and ruminate over another person’s hair color,
appearance, etc.? I realize that with a person in love, that happens more often than not, but I also
want to get across the point that Kaho, being so used to seeing Hayato, isn’t struck by how he looks
as much as what he says and how he reacts to her feelings. This isn’t to say that I find the point of
providing descriptions of characters invalid—actually, in most of my other fics that are in the works, I
do that off the top—I just don’t necessarily believe that the main characters have to always be
thinking about such things.
CHAPTER 5 PREVIEW:
As Shimizu and Kaho continue to butt heads wherever they meet, Kaho finds herself becoming
distanced from Hayato—distanced, that is, until he confronts her about her detachment. Will Kaho be
able to patch things up with Hayato, or will her war of words with Shimizu further separate her from
the boy she loves?
Please, if you like the fic and would like to see more of my writing in the future, REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 
 
Chapter 5: Konran (Chaos)
 
 
 
“Kaho! Didn’t I tell you to put the clean dishes back on the shelf?”
I rolled my eyes upon hearing the usual scolding of my mother—it usually occurred seconds after she
got home from work at 7:00 every night, and it always managed to rouse me from my otherwise
peaceful studying time. I wrenched myself from my work just long enough to peek outside my
bedroom door in distaste, sighing before I exited my room and nearly trudged to the kitchen in
weariness.
“Hai, ’kaasan. Gomen,” (1) I apologized, though by that point, it seemed fake even to me.
She eyed me with latent suspicion, though it seemed that she had scolded me sufficiently for the
moment. She hung up her long, black winter jacket in the coat closet, setting her briefcase and
handbag on the table shortly after. There was a general sense of ennui languishing in the air around
the two of us; it originated partly from my unending miseries at school and partly from my mother’s
extreme tiredness after working from eight to seven.
As an experienced computer database administrator, she was often asked to stay later at work than
necessary, and the strain of her sitting job on her eyes, limbs, and mind could not be ignored. Though
she was looked up to and admired at her job, she was rather disagreeable and tempestuous of mood
at home. I found it difficult to predict her moods and actions, even after living with her for fifteen
years in the same (fairly large) house.
I wondered if, perhaps, the divorce had been too much for her to handle.
She stalked off to her own bedroom as per usual, not bothering to ask me how my day was or what I
had been up to recently. I never really minded her not asking such questions (as it made my life
easier), but there seemed to be a void in me that had begun with the divorce and continued into the
present. Something incomplete, uncomfortable, and, for the most part, inexplicable.
I shivered in the coldness of the kitchen, suddenly wanting very much to be with Hayato. It was a
sensation that I hadn’t felt so strongly in quite a while, and it took a few minutes to shake off. I even
considered calling him in my loneliness; remembering that he would probably be tired from practice,
however, I held myself back from doing so.
I glanced at the calendar on the fridge, my finger tracing the line of dates down to the weekend two
weeks from then, stopping there.
Otousan . . .  (2)
Honestly, I couldn’t wait to go to my father’s place, liking the change of atmosphere. Forced to get his
own abode after the divorce, he had bought a fairly small apartment in Tokyo, and it took about an
hour to there by train. Nevertheless, his place was less stifling than my mother’s, and while he was
prone to ignore me for just as long a time as she was, he was also prone to giving me more freedom.
A couple of times in the past I had even invited Hayato to come with me to visit my father, and we
had walked around the city at night, exploring various lit-up streets and marveling at the sights like
simple country-dwellers. Without him there, visiting my father was fairly uneventful, and I ended up
doing my homework there rather than anything more exciting.
It was ironic, really: I visited my father in the city to escape my boredom at home, but only ended up
doing the same tedious things.
Maybe it was a reflection of how I was as a person—when I wanted change and excitement, it never
came to me, but when I desired to remain static and for my world to be as predictable as possible,
everything went out of whack. It was almost as though I had been so dull and languorous for so long
that it took the revelation of Hayato’s true sexuality to shake me out of my lassitude.
I felt my dormant headache surface afresh at the thought, wincing at the lightly throbbing pain in my
temples. There had been a reason, after all, why I had silenced the voice of reason in my rebellious
subconscious.
Whether that reason was sensible or not was not really of much importance to me; in light of recent
events concerning oneShimizu Jun, I felt even more justified in ignoring the revelation that I had
received just a few months earlier. Within me, there existed the impetuous mind of a five-year-old,
the same mind that challenged Shimizu and replied to him so viciously on a regular basis.
When I reflected on them, I realized that my actions had been entirely irrational and unjust towards
the guy—even so, my pride was revolted by the mere idea  of not returning his tartness with my own.
My eyes narrowed in on the dishes as I put them away, my heart constricting in a small measure of
defensiveness.
I can never let him know.
---
The following morning went by rather quickly—by the time I was sitting at my desk, looking out the
window of 1-D, I had already put much of the day before away in my mind, tending to some last-
minute homework. I was in a decent mood, having started the day with Hayato, and it only got better
as the minutes flew by.
“Eh? Shimizu-kun’s not in school today?!”
I couldn’t help but smirk cruelly upon hearing those dismayed words from Matsumoto Chieko, one of
the most vapid and devoted Shimizu  fans in my class. She and the other fan-drones all whined for
what seemed like hours on the subject, discussing various theories as to why he was out, what to
bring him if he was sick (which they were sure he was), etc. I felt all the more relieved, strangely
enough, by such talk, even putting down my pencil for a moment to strike up a conversation with
Hayato.
“Ne, Hayato—”
Oh . . .  sou ka. I forgot.
His eyes alone revealed how crushed he was by Shimizu’s absence; he kept all other bodily signs of
disappointment carefully hidden, though not from me. He seemed to be entirely out of it before
noticing that I had called his name, quickly snapping out of his depressed daze.
“Nani?” He asked with a small smile, though I could hear the sad note underscoring the question.
I suddenly felt a great weight settle on my heart, seeing him trying to put on a normal façade; I
smiled gently, shaking my head. “Betsu ni,” (3) I told him, picking up my pencil again, “I just wanted
to see you smile.”
He looked surprised by my answer, though just as I had hoped, he seemed to be in lighter spirits
because of it, and he leaned on my desk with genuine gratitude in his expression.
“Baka,” he said playfully, poking my cheek, “You know that I’d do that for you any time.”
I blushed despite myself, pouting at the poke he had given me. “Oi,” I warned, though we both
laughed afterwards, oblivious as always.
---
“Practice again?  Honestly, Hayato!”
I stuck out my tongue playfully in mock disapproval, having known full well of his after-school
activities that day. I had quite a load of homework to do myself, so I didn’t mind not having company
on the train ride home, my books safely tucked under my arm.
Hayato grinned a little, taking his practice jersey, shorts, and sneakers out of his locker and stuffing
them into his bag. “Just wait—next week we can go home together! Yakusoku.” (4)
I raised an eyebrow in false suspicion, but tempered my reaction nonetheless, smiling cleverly.
“I’ll hold you to that, then.”
He laughed at my response, waving to me as I left and I, fortunately, did not encounter the same
situation as the day before. Rather, the school was fairly quiet, most of the students having run out as
fast as they could to enjoy their Fridays to the best of their abilities. Few people stayed after school on
the first day of the weekend besides the athletes; being as uninterested as I was in extracurricular
activities, I opted out of any excess time spent in school unless it was absolutely necessary.
It seemed as though it had taken mere seconds for me to descend the staircase to the first floor and
exit the main entrance, a small jump appearing in my step upon the realization that my horrendous
week at school had finally ended. I even let myself smile, greeting the station and subsequent leaving
train with an altogether brighter outlook.
I sat myself down quickly after getting inside the train, appreciative of the fact that the town in which
I lived didn’t necessarily have the biggest population, therefore leaving some space to move around in
after school on the train. After all, we got out at around 2:00, so we beat much of the traffic that
followed a 9 to 5 job. I sighed contentedly, closing my eyes—but only for a second.
“Watanabe-san? I wasn’t aware that you took this train.”
Oh, fuck.
My eyes snapped open, my good mood vanishing into thin air.
“Likewise,” I snapped, though kept my reply limited to that. I didn’t have to explain why I sought out
the most isolated, lonely section of the train possible—at least, not to him.
For that matter, I suddenly thought, eyeing him quizzically, why is  he  here?
“You look puzzled, Watanabe-san.”
I scoffed, turning away. “No more than I do every other day, wondering why you keep bothering me.”
“Am I bothering you?” He asked in that insufferable manner of his, and I scowled, meeting his
amused gaze again.
“Don’t fuck with me,” I nearly hissed, feeling my alter-ego surface again. I despised being teased and
played with by people I didn’t consider friends, much less good acquaintances. He had crossed the line
before with me, and I’d be damned if I let him do it again.
He looked a little taken aback by my venom, albeit intrigued as well. I just wanted him to get out of
my face, really.
“You’re not even going to ask why I wasn’t in school today?” He asked with mock curiosity, though for
some reason, there seemed to be a tiny bit of genuine disappointment in his voice.
Shaking off my momentary over-analyzing of his words, I upheld my vitriolic manner, answering him,
for the first time, with an honest reply.
“I could care less.”
Again, something akin to sincere dejection flashed in his eyes, though it lasted mere milliseconds. I
didn’t want to dig deep into the reasons for such an expression, but it did unnerving me enough to
make me sharply eject myself from the seat.
I faced him briefly as I stood there, mere inches from him; with little remorse, however, I turned
away, walking in the opposite direction towards a different car.
“I skipped school, you know—played at the arcade, bought a new wallet—I even went to
the yuuenchi (5) in the middle of the day.”
I halted promptly, hearing him speak so suddenly; it jarred my mind a bit that he was still talking to
me.
Why is he telling me these things?
He was obviously waiting to see if I would respond to his prod, silence pervading the car. I refused to
give into my confusion over his prompt, keeping my mouth shut. I clenched my fists momentarily—
other than that, there was nothing.
And so I left Shimizu on that last car of the train, walking ahead without pause.
---
The following weeks passed in much the same manner as the one before: I would mind my own
business, tend to my work, when suddenly, out of the blue, that aho  would approach me in his defiant
and agitating way.
He had become more of a problem than I had originally anticipated, since I had expected him to piss
off after the day on the train. Unfortunately, he had done just the opposite, baiting me at every turn
with his snide remarks and informality, the latter of which infuriated me to no end. I may have been a
prideful, irritable, and spiteful girl, but there was little that could arouse my ire quite like being
addressed inappropriately.
But perhaps that was his purpose; he seemed perfectly pleased with himself when he got any sort of
reaction from me, especially when it was one of anger. I tried to cap my short temper in order to
destroy any inkling of enjoyment he might receive at my expense, though more often than not my
self-control failed me in the end. Most likely I began to lose sight of my priorities when he had so
earnestly and, rather unfathomably, told me of his exploits that day on the train—the incident had
been inexplicable even to my rational mind, and his further harassment of me made my blood boil.
It felt so strange to have to talk and argue and spat with a boy that I had been jealous of for so long,
a boy that, in truth, I was still  jealous of. It angered me that I couldn’t rid myself of his endless
presence from my life, that I spent every waking minute wondering if he was about to round the bend
and back me into a corner. I hated living the proverbial vicious cycle, feeling restless and agitated
every day until, like clockwork, he would show up, feeding my pent-up anxiety with manifest
insincerity.
In this way, I lost touch with reality; my heart, just as it had in the past, blanched.
---
“Doushita, Watanabe? Do you need to go to the nurse?” (6)
I shook my head without even bothering to give a small, reassuring smile, the bags under my eyes
feeling heavy as I strained to look up.
“Iie, Morioka-sensei. I’m just . . . tired.” The answer was so unconvincing that I noticed Hayato rolling
his eyes at me from his desk, and I tried not to frown at the expression.
Morioka looked at me disbelievingly as well, but after a few moments of him and the rest of the class
staring at my limp form, he shrugged, returning to the front of the room.
“Suit yourself then. Now, where were we? Ah, I remember. Ano . . . Yunoki, pick it up at line thirty,
will you?”
His words began to fade as I regressed into my own world again, so embittered by the experiences of
the past two weeks that I cared little for anything else.
I was so absorbed in my spite that I failed to notice even the passing of time, and when the bell rang
for the end of the day, everything afterwards felt rather mechanical: I got up promptly, collected my
books, waited for Hayato to finish, and we left together.
At least, that was how it usually  went.
“Kaho, we need to talk.”
Upon hearing him say that simple phrase, I immediately felt like the avoidant husband in an unhappy
marriage, wanting to sigh in defeat before beginning the inevitable argument with the wife (in that
case, Hayato).
I settled down on top of the desk behind Hayato’s, resting my bag down in the seat. I was prepared
for this “talk,” or lecture, or whatever he wanted to call it, since it certainly would last much longer
than a simple conversation.
“You’ve been so intense and prickly lately—and when I say lately, I mean for a while now.” He eyed
me with all the seriousness he could muster, and I, for the first time in a long white, was not
altogether cynical or indifferent to what he said to me.
“Frankly, Kaho . . . I don’t know what’s been going on with you since school started, but you’re not
acting like yourself at all,” he said bluntly, to my surprise. He was rarely this straightforward, and I
knew, though I had my reservations, to pay attention. “It’s as though you’re a different person now;
we don’t talk as much as we used to, and when we do, it’s pretty obvious that you’re not telling me
everything.”
I wasn’t sure how to react to his assertion—it was, indubitably, 100 correct, but it didn’t sit well with
me at all. I was already in such a fragile emotional state from quarrelling with him  all those past
weeks that practically anything  could tip the balance.
Regrettably, Hayato had been the one to do it.
“Tell you everything? Now how would I go about doing that, Hayato?”
For once, I didn’t feel guilty about biting back at him, regardless of my unjust attitude towards him
even then; I was so overloaded with problems and conflicts that Hayato accusing me of doing the very
thing that I had  been doing since my “revelation” was a bit too much. I couldn’t tell him why I had
been so distant those past months—it would have been equivalent to slapping him in the face. He
couldn’t understand what I had been going through, and, if I could help it, he would continue to not
understand.
He was doubtlessly taken aback by my coldness, though he replied just as harshly, his eyes narrowing
in on me.
“Sou ka. Sumimasen.”
And with that, he gathered up his things and left me—much in the same manner that I had Shimizu,
on that day two weeks before. That day seemed to have occurred two millennia ago, so entrenched in
this mire of lies and pride and ill will I was in that moment.
Resentful of Hayato’s point-blank indictment of my character, of his ignorance of my feelings, and of
his indirect insensitivity, I brooded in the classroom a while longer, staring moodily at the floor. I had
little incentive to leave, though students in charge of seisou  eyed me with obvious apprehension and
irritation for not moving.
Nonetheless, I did eventually exit the room with my invisible cloud of gloom overhead, hoping, rather
fruitlessly, that I would be able to avoid Shimizu’s presence then. It was fruitless, I suppose, in the
sense that I was so accustomed to taking the side staircase downstairs that I didn’t bother to change
my route once Shimizu started his little game of cat and mouse. Considering that, it was mostly my
fault for always running into him, since I knew exactly where he would find me and didn’t even
attempt to try going another way.
I suspect it was pride that kept me from changing my routine—I refused to give into his ploys to
discomfort me, regardless of my numerous other options.
“You look scarier than usual, Watanabe.”
I really want to punch him right now. Maybe it would relieve some of this stress.
“And you’re just as much an aho as you always are,” I retorted, halting my walk.
“So feisty already? I’m impressed, Watanabe. Usually it takes at least thirty seconds to rile you up like
that.”
I snorted, hardly amused by his idiotic banter. “Well, I’m glad to have provided you some
entertainment, then.” By the end of my piece, my eyes narrowed threateningly at him, warning him as
well as I could that truly I was in no condition to be played upon like an instrument.
He seemed to understand my gruesome frame of mind, and complemented it with a grave expression
of his own, grabbing me by my arm as I tried to walk by him.
“Why won’t you tell me the truth?”
Shimizu said it so forcefully with both words and grip that I felt my skin turn cold at the question, as
though struck by a winter breeze. Quickly after, when I regained some sense of what he had said and
how tightly he held my arm, I glowered, looking away from him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oushikoso!” (7)
He nearly growled in his anger, though his was small in comparison to mine. I ripped my arm from his
grasp, scowling like I’d never scowled before.
“Oushikoso, you say? Well then, what would you have me tell you, Shimizu?  What more could
you possibly want from me?” I took a step back, wanting to tear my hair out in frustration. “Why the
fuck does everyone think that I owe them something? What have I ever done to deserve all this
stupid shit?”
I turned around, again walking away from him, only to turn back at the last second, ignoring the
shock that was plastered across his handsome face.
“Just . . . get out of my life, onegai.”
------------------------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “Yes, mother. Sorry.” (“’kaasan” is just short for “okaasan,” which means mother.)
2 “Dad” or “father.”
3 “Nothing much” or “It’s nothing.”
4 “I promise.”
5 amusement park
6 “Are you all right?” (Short form of “Doushitano?”)
7 “Bullshit!”
Title of chapter (translated): Chaos
Author’s Note: SO SORRY FOR THE THREE-WEEK BREAK!!! February has been a killer month at
school, and I still have a huge research paper due next week (on Watership Down  by Richard Adams,
which is an AMAZING book by the way—READ IT!)! I tried my best to create confusion and the titular
chaos in this chapter—I wasn’t intending to skip two weeks time in the story, but it does help move
things along, I think. I just like exploring Kaho’s character a lot, which would explain the extensive
inner monologues she has—I’m trying to reveal to the readers all the unfortunate facets of her
personality that Shimizu brings out, and how Shimizu will (obviously) continue to influence her
character. Also, the digression about Kaho's family life was not without purpose--I really hate the fact
that so few manga show the home life of the protagonists, since I am a huge believer in the fact that
what goes on at home does influence, perhaps more so than anything else, who a person is and what
they become. Later chapters will develop the story of Kaho's parents and her continuing problems with
her mother and with Hayato and Jun, so stay tuned! I’m having fun, and hopefully, so are all the
readers! But if you have any concerns with the development of the story as it is going now, please,
don’t be afraid to voice your concerns in reviews! I appreciate any and all suggestions to make the fic
better.
CHAPTER 6 PREVIEW:
Struck by Kaho’s honesty, Shimizu finds himself more and more drawn to her—much to Kaho’s
chagrin. Lost in a sea of troubles, she must find a way to resolve the bitter fight between herself and
Hayato before she loses her only friend in the world, but can she throw away her pride and tell him
the truth?
Please, if you like the fic and would like to see more of my writing in the future, REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 
 
Chapter 6: Hazumi
 
 
The rain came down fast and hard the next morning, and just as well it should have.
I felt wretched.
I wondered what, exactly, had egged me on to do and say the things that I had the day before; had it
simply been my emotional transparency as uncovered by Hayato, Shimizu’s usual smarminess, or a
combination of the two? I guessed it was the last idea, though I had become far more upset by
Hayato’s queries than by Shimizu’s pestering.
Luckily, my miserable state managed to ward off any classmates that might have approached me that
day about some class chore or whatnot, and so whatever terrible experience I was having I could deal
with by myself. Of course, it would have been nicer if I had had someone to lean on when times got
rough with Hayato, but . . . I had distanced myself from the other girls in the grade too much to start
making friends then.
Sometimes, while I stared out the window listlessly, I would catch my wandering eyes glimpsing at
Hayato—just as quickly, however, I averted them, closing any remaining window of opportunity that I
had to apologize to him. He seemed to notice my reluctant gaze, taking a peek at me himself every
once in a while. I would steer my vision clear of him when he tried to do such, but then, on an off
moment, we would lock stares.
The fight that we were having was different from ones we had had in the past—for one thing, we both
felt lingering indignation, though I had no right to. At the lowest point in our friendship we had still
managed to make up after about four days, still a while away from where we were then.
Nevertheless, I was uneasy about the prospect of having our feud go on for much longer than it
already had, and when our eyes met in those small instances I tried hard to remain aloof. To be
honest, I didn’t feel as guilty as I should have then, so embittered by his questions and quasi-
lecturing. In fact, I still felt a measure of self-justification at that time, clouded in mind and spirit as I
was. Justifying the act in my head was the only way of avoiding certain shame, so I did all I could to
convince myself that I was in the right.
How little I knew then; how little I cared to know!
---
“You look sick, Kahoko.”
That was my mother’s blunt manner of speaking—not unlike Hayato’s, but definitely coarser. I bit back
a frown at the observation, taking in another mouthful of the soba. (1)
“I feel sick,” I admitted, resting my chopsticks down on the plate. I let out a deep sigh in discontent,
and I just faintly heard my mother’s chopsticks tap against her own plate. She reached across the
table, placing the back of her hand against my forehead.
I sighed again, though this time it was in exasperation. “’kaasan, you really don’t need to do that—”
She gave me her fearsome death glare the minute I opened my big mouth, and I immediately shut it,
timorous of her wrath. She watched me as she placed a hand against her own forehead for measure,
though after a second longer she placed both hands back beside her plate, satisfied with what she had
discerned.
“You’re not sick,” she said brusquely, “though you don’t look well in general.”
She eyed me for a minute, and I returned the look in confusion, wondering what she would deduce.
My mother wasn’t necessarily an enigmatic figure, as cryptic as her stares could be; she just thought
about certain things too much, and doing that made her more irritable than normal.
On that occasion, however, she appeared casual in her last words to me of the evening, her eyes
promptly returning to her meal. “Take the day off tomorrow,” she said calmly, catching me off guard.
“Collect your bearings.”
I was surprised, no doubt—it was rare that she let me stay home, but I supposed that the deathlike
atmosphere that surrounded me had convinced her well enough.
I needed a day off, anyway.
---
My nostrils flared as I shot up from my bed, my eyes darting around the room furiously. It took a few
minutes of silent darkness for me to figure out that I was in my own room, in my own bed, and
bewildered for no particular reason.
Had I had a nightmare? I couldn’t remember clearly. In fact, the only thing that seemed apparent was
that it was 3:00 A.M. on my supposed “sick day” and I was already awake and alert, much to my
chagrin. I grumbled under my breath once I composed myself well enough to realize what I was
doing, slamming back down on the mattress beneath me in defiance of my insomnia.
I’d be damned if my subconscious was eating away at me during my sleep, too.
I rolled over promptly in my bed, stuffing my face in the pillow to further communicate my displeasure
at being woken up by my active brain. This action, suffice to say, also failed to lull me back to my
semi-unconscious state, and I rolled onto my side, staring blankly at the far wall of the room.
He must think I’m a total bitch.
I glowered at the thought as it entered my awakened mind, wrapping myself even tighter in the
blankets. I wondered if the action was to unconsciously protect myself against my own ruminations; I
wouldn’t have been surprised if it was, really. I had a tendency to shield myself from the truth.
Why the fuck did I say that stuff, anyway? I didn’t mean it. Why can’t I just tell him that?
Despite my intense concentration on blockading my guilty conscience, it broke through the barrier,
even making some sense in my garbled head. Maybe it was my weak will when it came to Hayato—I
hated fighting with him, and consequently, when we did fight, I couldn’t really think about anything
else until we had resolved our argument. It was an unfortunate effect, but one that always managed
to stick with me.
I should tell him I’m sorry. I should tell him.
I wanted to punch something in frustration, too awake to sleep and too angry to even try and doze off
again. There was little to do but stare in consternation at the wall, that white, lone, unforgiving wall. It
had unwittingly become my source of equilibrium, for all its blandness; a single source of glaring calm
in my otherwise maddeningly blackened room.
Why can’t I ever say it?
It wouldn’t make much of a difference, anyway.
---
I ended up spending most of the day like that—sitting or lying down and doing nothing but wallowing
in self-reproach, my stoic expression permanently fixed onto my features. Waking up at such an
ungodly hour had also managed to enflame my simmering guilt and I wondered if it would have been
better to have just gone to school and apologized face-to-face. I felt as though I was hiding there in
my house, not really sick and not really well either.
But if I had gone, what could I have said? That question nagged at me as I tried to finish up some
homework for history class, my pencil continuously digging harder and harder into the paper. I had
my doubts about doing a quick and painless apology; not that Hayato would have accepted one, but it
would have made everything a hell of a lot easier.
No, I thought, short and sweet was never the right answer to a problem. Not with him, at least.
Maybe something more emotional could work? More melodramatic?
(Act 5, Scene III . . . ACTION!)
Me: Oh Hayato, please forgive me! I just . . . I don’t know what I was thinking! The truth is that I . . .
I . . . I hate being apart from you! It pains my heart and soul to be away from you even for a second!
Hayato: Oh Kaho, I never doubted you—I knew you would come back to me!
(Aaaaaaaand CUT!)
No. Definitely not.
As I mused over the various movie scripts and cheesy soap opera lines that ran through my head for
one reason or another, I ignored the passage of time, choosing instead to lie on the couch and stare
at the ceiling. The ideas that popped into my mind were entertaining but a distraction, so much so
that when the doorbell rang at 3:00 P.M. sharp that afternoon, I just about jumped out of my skin in
surprise.
I ran to the door at lightning speed, propelled by the shock that the bell had jolted into my languorous
system. Without even asking who was there, I opened it with one swift, furious pull, feeling strange
for doing so afterwards.
“Ah . . . ano . . . what are you doing here, Hayato?”
Well, that went nothing like the soap opera scene.
I wanted to smack myself for being so rude, especially after torturing myself with shame the entire
day beforehand, but Hayato only appeared somewhat embarrassed by the question. He reddened
lightly, looking away.
“Eto . . . K—Kaho, you . . .” his voice trailed off mid-mumble, and I only looked at him in confusion,
not understanding the cause for his sheepishness nor his unintelligible manner of speaking. I was
about to respond in something of a disquieted abruptness, though I realized his meaning moments
later.
“Nani? Why are you—”
Suddenly, it hit me.
I’m not wearing any pants.
The blush managed to overtake my consciousness in about .01 seconds, and I quickly hid behind my
front door, opening it wider so that he could come in. He entered without looking at me, obviously
understanding that I had been oblivious as to my personal state of (un)dress until that point.
I ran to my room and threw on a pair of slacks in the midst of my crimsoning, barely able to keep it
together when I came back into the living room. I was red as an apple, and my hands fiddled with the
hem of my shirt, entirely unsure as to how I had gotten into such an awkward situation.
“Ano . . . gomen for just intruding all of a sudden,” he stumblingly apologized, less red than me but no
less embarrassed, “I just—I heard you were sick, so . . .”
He wandered off in his speech again, but I couldn’t blame him. I was usually more cautious around the
house, always aware that he might be coming; I suppose that I had been so sure of his anger towards
me that I didn’t have the slightest notion that he might visit.
“But weren’t you—aren’t you—mad at me?” I asked haltingly, still trying to recover some composure
after my unforgivable slip-up. I crossed my arms for emphasis, the rouge still evident in my cheeks.
Hayato regarded the question for a moment, seeming to tilt between displeasure and ambivalence.
Finally, he looked up at me again, settling on an expression that was somewhere between the two.
“Well, I was, and . . .” he paused there, continuing, “I still am a little bit, but . . . I figured it wasn’t
getting either of us anywhere.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just don’t see the point
of us fighting, that’s all.”
My heart breathed a bit freer, hearing him say that; it was just what I had needed to hear all day, and
my shoulders loosened up in response. I walked a few steps closer to him, stopping when there was a
good meter or so between us.
“To be honest, I—I feel the same,” I acknowledged, doing as best I could to crush any and all
hesitance in my voice. “I . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you, you know.”
I looked at him tentatively, hoping for some kind of consolation from him.
He stared at me a bit inquisitively, probingly; it was somewhat uncomfortable, even coming from him.
He replied a moment later, a roughness around the edges of his words.
“I know you didn’t mean to, but you did, Kaho.”
I felt like crying, hating that he was being his usual, honest self with me. I bit my lip, staring at him
imploringly. Could he have understood how hard it was for me to say what I needed to say? I didn’t
think so.
“Gomen,” I said quietly, not allowing for any other display of emotion besides the apology that I’m
sure shone in my eyes. “Gomen nasai.”
He relaxed more after hearing my apology, finally letting go of any lasting vitriol that he might have
(rightfully) had towards me. He eased into a smile, opening his arms with the smallest of movements
and motioning for me to come between them. I complied gladly, my bent arms squished against his
broad chest. As his arms enfolded me, I shuddered, so missing that feeling without even realizing that
I had.
I closed my eyes, subtly taking in his scent as I laid my head beneath his chin. I could hear his heart
beating in that slow, reassuring way, and it comforted me in much the same manner that it had for
the past thirteen years. How could I ever have let him feel unwanted? Sometimes I befuddled
even myself with my bratty behavior.
“Kaho?”
“Mm?” I answered his lulling baritone, my eyes still wistfully closed and planning on staying that way.
“Were you actually sick today?”
My dreamlike state quickly dissolved, and I worked myself out of his hold, though I did so with the
utmost gentility so as not to offend him again. Really, though: did he have to be so dense about
everything?
I sighed, then looked at him sharply, remembering something myself. “How did you know that I was
sick?” I asked, though wondered a second later if he had just assumed it from my not being at school.
Hayato looked a bit embarrassed, scratching his head again. “Well, besides the fact that you weren’t
in school . . . I called your mom and asked her myself.”
I rouged, flattered and yet discomfited by his concern for me in the midst of our fight. My mother had
always liked Hayato well enough; it was no surprise that she would tell him the truth. Plus, he had
picked up on my relative good health by then, I suspected, so the question shouldn’t have caught me
so off-guard. I smiled awkwardly, trying to defend my actions (albeit poorly).
“Well, iie, I wasn’t sick,but . . . I didn’t exactly feel good, you know . . .” I muttered, and he laughed
at my pathetic excuse, grinning widely.
“Sou ka. How about I make you some koucha  (2)then, ne?” He offered kindly, and I only nodded, still
blushing.
---
Little out of the ordinary occurred the next day at school—Hayato and I got our usual looks of
suspicion and jealousy as we walked together before and after classes, but besides that, my life
seemed to be more in sync than it had been in months. I liked having a certain rhythm and cadence to
my everyday activities; I think it kept me sane in an otherwise anxiety-ridden world.
Hayato, perhaps finally understanding my need for normalcy, paid me special attention that day. Not
that he was ever lacking in his friendly affections towards me, but . . . for some reason, it just felt
different after reconciling. I didn’t enjoy the fact that it had been our second reconciliation in a month,
but I was content enough.
“Kaaaaaaaaaaho . . .”
I abruptly snapped out of my midday dreaming, blinking curiously at Hayato.
“Nani?”
“Let’s go home together today, ne?”
I cocked my head to the side in question, my chin resting on my knuckle. “Don’t you have practice?”
He shook his head with a small grin, answering promptly. “Amazingly, I don’t,” he remarked, and I
grinned a bit myself in response. “Why don’t we get some takoyaki (3) on the way home?”
I looked admiringly upon him as soon as the word “takoyaki” left his lips, exclaiming, “Oh, you know
me too well! I only wish that the day would end now!”
He smirked, ruffling my hair fondly before the end of lunch separated us again. I gave him a playful
glare—he knew how much I hated people touching my hair—but I was too excited about our future
plans then to really care about anything else.
---
“Ah, kuso! (4) I forgot my math book in my locker!”
I looked to my side where Hayato was absentmindedly fingering through his carrier bag, wearing an
expression of alarm. Before I could say anything, his eyes pierced mine, and my mouth couldn’t have
moved if it tried.
“Meet me at the door, ne? I’ll be back in a second,” he said hurriedly, and bolted back to his locker,
which was conveniently located in the furthest corner of the second floor. I waved to him out of habit,
getting a good laugh out of his paranoia. As laidback as he seemed in comparison to me, even he
acted strangely and randomly sometimes.
I made my way down the side stairwell of the second floor, forgetting, as I always managed to, who
awaited me at the bottom.
“You really are a sadistic person, aren’t you, Watanabe?”
The first thing I noticed was, of course, his lack of a proper, formal suffix attached to my surname;
already I felt provoked and ready to bite back. I swiftly turned to look at him with the full intention of
putting him into his place, yet . . .
All the anger left me as soon as I saw his face—that churlish, smug face—and memories of our last
exchange and my bitter parting words rushed back to me in an instant. Accompanying them was a
foreign feeling of intense, unadulterated guilt, one that was so powerful that my eyes shortly averted
themselves from his, too ashamed to even look at him.
In fact, rather than look at him, they darted from left to right, right to left, as if searching for a reason
why they couldn’t meet his. Why do I suddenly feel sick to my stomach? Since when do I care about
what he thinks of me?
That last thought was especially egregious; in its midst, my anxious eyeballing had abruptly halted.
What had my mind meant, exactly?
“Doushitano?”
The question was asked in such a different tone than what I was used to from him that I recoiled
suddenly, my eyes reflexively moving to stare at him in apprehension. I couldn’t have very well
answered his seemingly genuine concern; my brain still hadn’t verified the fact that he had ever
spoken something so politely to me. I ruffled at his inquiry despite my uncertainty, my shoulders
tensing up as they always did around him.
“Nothing,” I snapped, though it was obvious that everything  had gone wrong from the moment that I
had met him in that small, deserted, and amazingly secluded little hallway. I often wondered how
none of his fan girls followed him this far, considering their stalker-like obsession.
He seemed to consider my answer for a moment or two; why I didn’t leave during those few
moments, I’ll never understand. Instead, I just stood there as if I were expecting a reply (which I
wasn’t). Eyeing me in that patronizing way of his, he spoke.
“You know . . . you surprised me last week,” he said casually, leaning on some spare lockers nearby.
“I didn’t expect that you’d react so violently to a simple question.”
I glowered at him for that smartass comment, still standing in the middle of the hallway and a good
four meters away from him. “Your ‘simple question,’ Shimizu, seemed more like a threat to me,” I said
crisply, though with all the meaning remaining behind my words.
He looked somewhat taken aback by this reply; how he didn’t expect it, I didn’t comprehend, but he
was definitely acting strangely that day. He watched me for a second longer, looking a bit perplexed.
“Are you threatened by me, Watanabe?”
It was a plainly-spoken question—the kind that makes a person want to answer it immediately but
then stop and think about how they would (or could) reply. I found myself opening my mouth to
speak, though no words would come out; it quickly became apparent that the question, though
seemingly uncomplicated and obvious, was a trap.
WasI threatened by that punk?  Did he instill some kind of primal fear within me whenever we traded
barbs? Was I so afraid of letting him know the truth that anything he said to me sounded much worse
than it actually was?
At the time, I wasn’t sure of anything. Thoughts and doubts and worries flooded my mind, yet I
couldn’t make any sense of them. Some part of me was compelled to answer his stupid question—
maybe the one that hated and avoided conflict. I gathered my wits about me, letting myself give one
last, great exhale to prepare myself. Greeting his eyes again with my own, I was ready to give him my
reply.
“I—”
“Kaho? What’s going on?”
As soon as I heard his voice, I froze like a block of ice—my already tense frame literally felt paralyzed
by the reintroduction ofhis confused, beautiful baritone into the conversation. It took all my strength
to turn back around towards the bottom of the stairwell where Hayato stood, staring pointedly (and
confusedly) at me, though his vision quickly directed itself over to Shimizu.
Unabashedly and with frightening force, Hayato observed Shimizu with a fixated and fervid gaze, one
that, had it been focused on me, would have made me turn tomato-red.
To Shimizu, however, his staring must have seemed intimidating or, at best, kind of awkward. I was
sure that he’d never been stared at that way before, especially by another guy. I didn’t know whether
to feel jealous or sympathetic; I was still in shock from being interrupted by Hayato, of all people,
and, on top of that, witnessing that extraordinary exchange of looks between the boy I loved and the
boy I couldn’t stand.
Shimizu shook off Hayato’s gaze after a moment longer, much to my relief; his eyes returned to me in
that same instant, bemused by what had just happened. It seemed as though he was trying to ask me
for an explanation as to whom Hayato was and why he was there—an explanation, I might add, that I
had no interest in telling to Shimizu. Finding no help in my stony eyes, he glanced at Hayato briefly,
excusing himself in his nauseatingly polite, public manner.
“Gomen nasai for the trouble—I’ll be going, then.”
I wanted to roll my eyes so badly when I heard those words of farewell, but . . . I was too distracted
by what I saw when my gaze returned to Hayato. Where Shimizu had just left us two, Hayato’s stare
followed. It seemed to follow that path forever, an endless passion that glowed red in the rays of the
afternoon sunset that streamed through the windows.
He was watching, always watching with those burning eyes.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 Buckwheat noodles
2 Tea
3 Griddled dumplings with octopus bits inside
4 “Shit!”
Title of chapter (translated): By Chance
Author’s Note: Again, many apologies for the three-week break, but I’ve had, quite literally, three
research papers due in the last month! I feel like a newspaper writer from all the crap I’ve been
writing for my classes, haha. I didn’t mean to make most of the chapter center on Kaho and Hayato,
but I think it turned out OK, ne? I always try to keep up the drama by the end, at least! All I can think
to say is: it would suck to be in Kaho’s position, no? Hope you all had some fun!
CHAPTER 7 PREVIEW:
Though she tried to keep it secret, it seems that Hayato finally knows that Kaho has been in contact
with Shimizu . . . or does he? Meanwhile, Shimizu wonders what to make of Hayato’s sudden
interruption—he puzzles at who Hayato is and, more importantly, what he is to Kaho.
 
 
Chapter 7: Fukai
 
 
Silence.
That was the state of Hayato and I at the takoyaki stand after the bizarre incident that had occurred
earlier, and it was a state that, frankly, made me rather uncomfortable.
He hadn’t spoken since we had left the school about fifteen minutes earlier; I figured he was still in
shock to some extent, as any person with a hidden crush would be. In that way, he reminded me of a
young schoolgirl so innocent in her love and admiration that, when actually meeting her dream guy
face to face, she could be paralyzed in her conscious thought and action.
Not that the casual observer could see any of those emotions from Hayato, of course. He hid his equal
fright and awe well, as he always did, wearing an aloof mask. It was almost unpleasant eating with
him when he was so unresponsive and, well . . .manly, in the traditional, stoic sense of the word. I
found myself feeling bored after the initial surprise of the event had worn off; I knew how much it had
affected him, but I couldn’t help feeling as irritated as I was.
After all, we had finally ended our multiple cold wars and reconciled several times over (in rather
beautiful, touching, commercial-esque ways, might I add), and then that damned Shimizu  had to ruin
everything all over again!
I was really looking forward to the takoyaki, too . . .
Yet instead of enjoying my food and having a good ol’ time with Hayato, there I was, sitting with him
on a spare bench near the stand, neither of us talking to one another. Irony, I supposed, had once
again come to bite me in the ass.
Feeling out of place, I literally twiddled my thumbs, placing my empty takoyaki box beside me.
“Ano . . .”
I was never that great at striking up conversations, and that time was no exception. I struggled to find
words to break the silence, but after a time of not continuing my thought, I gave up.
Through my failed effort, the atmosphere only became more awkward and quiet; it didn’t help that we
lived in a relatively quiet area. I ended up glowering at the street in front of us, settling on a grumpy
mood. I might have been a pretty meek person myself, but dammit, I hated awkwardness!
More than anything, I wondered why he didn’t say anything—specifically, why he didn’t ask about me
being with Shimizu. Of all people, surely Hayato  would want to know! But he never said a word about
it, simply sitting on the bench and occasionally picking at his already-cold takoyaki. I assumed that he
had deduced something  about the occurrence; what exactly, I didn’t know. I only hoped that he
hadn’t deduced anything suspicious about the two of us . . . well, about me at least. Shimizu was a
suspicious character in my book. I almost smirked at the idea, though, not a moment later, a thought
entered my mind that erased any trace of joviality.
Did he hear our conversation?
My heart went cold at the idea. It was definitely possible—that much was for certain. Indeed, maybe
Hayato had been pondering over what words Shimizu and I had exchanged rather than the general
details; and if so, then what? What exactlyhad he heard? From what I remembered, he had looked
pretty unaware as to what had been going on until he made that dramatic entrance. His face had
shown no sign of hiding behind stairwell doors and listening in before deciding on the perfect time to
show up, thereby keeping secret his knowledge of what had passed.
But hiding was what Hayato did best, whether it was emotion or information; if anyone could keep
something “hush-hush,” it was him.
Once a considerable amount of time had passed, he suddenly got up, not even looking to see if I
would do the same. I frowned discontentedly at his obliviousness, but quickly followed suit, walking
behind him as we made our way to the train station.
He never asked me anything that afternoon, and we parted ways once we took a very long, silent, and
reasonably uncomfortably train ride home. He only gave me a small and mumbled “ja ne” to serve as
farewell, and I took it just as unenthusiastically.
---
The next morning passed in the same way as the afternoon before it had, and I nearly fell asleep
before first period had started.
Hayato was unnaturally quiet, and every girl in the freshman class noticed. Before school started and
during lunch (or whenever they got the chance to), they would crowd around the outside of the 1-D or
around his desk and badger him about his down mood. All the while they gave me glares from the
corners of their eyes, assumedly suspecting (and accusing) me of engendering his sadness.
I rolled my eyes with every look thrown my way, elevating their anger (and my amusement). They
probably thought I was heartless—in fact, I heard a couple of them whisper that I was a “heartless
bitch”—but I didn’t care. I couldn’t have dragged Hayato out of that miserable mood even if I had
tried, so forlorn he looked. I knew he didn’t want me babying him; I could tell as much from his
behavior the day before, though that stoicism had turned into dreariness.
However, by the end of lunch, even I was getting sick of those insipid snobs cooing at Hayato as
though he were a three year old. Endo Ai, being the perfect little lamb-faced demon that she was, had
been the last straw.
“Moouu, Wakamoto-kuuuun . . . don’t look so sad! Everyone here is cheering you on! Right,
minna?” (1)
Endo’s followers eagerly echoed their leader’s sentiments, all beaming in their frightening, shoujo
manga-like way.
“Ganbatte ne!”  (2)
With a dash of panache that I didn’t even know I had, I slammed my fist down on my desktop,
standing quickly after my hand made contact with the wood. My eyes flared in ire for effect, though in
truth it took me a moment to recover after acting so impulsively.
The girls surrounding Hayato’s desk all jumped simultaneously, and the room grew quiet in mere
milliseconds. Stunned by my action, they unconsciously moved away from Hayato’s desk, huddling
together like the pathetic, cloying bunch they all were.
Honestly, I was surprised by how well my intimidation tactics had worked—after all, I was only one
against many, and they could have easily overtaken me had they so wished it. Perhaps I was more
antagonizing than I had previously assumed? The thought both thrilled and upset me, especially since
it was probably true.
The only girl that did not budge from her position was—and this did not surprise me in the least—
Endo, her look defiant and proud. She knew that I was all talk, though I could see that she could take
no real action against me then. To put it another way: she had nothing on me, and if I could help it,
she would never  have anything on me.
Turning to Hayato with all the mustered sweetness of a provoked bee, Endo smiled, touching his
shoulder with a light, tender caress.
“Gomen nasai, Wakamoto-kun. It seems that Watanabe-chan  here doesn’t want us talking to you,”
she apologized, glancing at me for emphasis.
I could have ripped her arm off his shoulder on the spot.
Seeing my continued discomfort, she added a seductive lilt to her already insufferable simper, ending
her bit while running her manicured hand up from his shoulder to his collar.
“Sayonara, Wakamoto-kun.”
Her followers watched her admiringly as she walked away from Hayato with a hand on her swaying
hips, and they followed her out the room in that same fashion, giving me triumphant smirks all the
while.
I still felt infuriated by Endo’s actions, but I sighed once they were gone, glad to be rid of them. My
eyes rested on their object of idolatry once the last girl had left the room and the rest of the class had
gone back to its normal lunchtime activities, though they were taken aback by what they found there.
Hayato stared at me with a type of wonder that I had only seen him reserve for . . . well, Shimizu.  All
the tiredness had left his face entirely, and I blinked, not quite knowing what to say or do under the
circumstances. I had achieved my goal of dispersing the fan girls under the guise of helping him, so I
suppose that he had misconstrued my selfish act as one of generosity.
“Kaho . . .” he began, though I hushed him with a finger to his lips.
“I don’t deserve thanks for that,” I told him truthfully, smiling a little. “Just . . . smile for me, ne? You
promised you would if I asked.”
He appeared confused by my request at first; soon after, however, he remembered his own words,
and that big, warm smile that I loved broke out on his lips. He took my hands in his, resting his chin
atop them.
“Hai—I remember.”
---
“Looks like rain!” Mr. Morioka observed before our after-lunch class started up again, and immediately
everyone’s heads turned to look out the large windows of the classroom.
As Morioka had said, dark clouds dotted the horizon for miles, and many groans of disappointment
could be heard throughout the room.
“Kuso, I was supposed to go out with my boyfriend today!”
“I was gonna play some fuckin’ ball! What the fuck,  man?”
“This sucks.”
“Oh, quit your whining,” Mr. Morioka cut in, giving every complainer in the class an old-fashioned
teacher’s glare. “And watch your mouths!”
A few more grumbles could be heard after that last comment, though the class assembled itself fairly
quickly. There was little that could be done about the weather, after all.
Unlike my sodden classmates, I could’ve cared less about the morose forecast—my mood had once
again flip-flopped in its extraordinary way, leaving me buoyant in my good feeling. Hayato was giving
me rather fond and caring looks as often as he could and, like the vain person I was, I greedily sucked
in all his warmth, enjoying the attention. I imagined (with little sympathy) that the guy that sat
between us, Wakatsuki Mamoru, had become entirely annoyed with our silent exchange after only a
few minutes into Morioka’s class.
Nonetheless, he said nothing, perhaps knowing that Hayato could (but wouldn’t) kick his ass in a fight
on any day of the week. He was one of the best players on the basketball team—a formidable position
to hold in a high school, no doubt.
Suddenly, I felt something brush up against my arm; looking down, I saw a folded-up note with the
characters for my name written on the front. I smiled upon seeing it, covertly sneaking a glance at
Hayato for confirmation of his penmanship. He glanced back at me at about the same time with a little
smile himself, and so I knew it was him.
I opened the note as quietly and carefully as possible under my desk, knowing Morioka’s tendency to
walk the aisles during class and demand that random people (with “random” meaning the sleepers,
talkers, and daydreamers) read from the book. I had managed to avoid such misfortune by acting as
though I were fully attentive during the class, though with the note in my hand I didn’t know for how
long I could keep a straight face on.
Once it was fully unwrinkled, I cautiously placed it inside my textbook, holding the book up so that
outsiders could only see the outer cover. With some conspiratorial feeling of adventure, I grinned a
bit, reading the note.
Kaaaaho!
I’m bored. And I’ve been thinking—isn’t your birthday soon? We should plan some kinda party for it,
ne? It’s been way too long since we had some fun together! Write me back with ideas.
Yours Truly,
Hayato
I wanted to giggle at the random drawings of cats and faux-alien faces interspersed throughout the
note, though I held it in, putting on a serious face for the masses. Looking around me with the utmost
circumspectness, I was glad to find that Morioka had moved back up to the front of the room, where
he would most likely stay for the rest of the period. I quietly picked up my pencil from the corner of
my desk, flipping the note over with the slightest of motions and preparing to write a reply.
Haaaaaayatooo—
The paper was snatched out from underneath my pencil before I had time to process what had just
occurred, and Morioka looked at me disapprovingly, doing a short inspection of the note, front and
back. He then looked at me curiously, my eyes wide in both fear and surprise.
“When’s your birthday, Watanabe?”
He asked it so randomly and in such a genuine manner that I froze on the spot, the eyes of everyone
in the class on me. Though I felt uneasy and anxious, I answered him, somehow thinking that if I
didn’t I would be cruelly punished.
“Jan—January first,” I said stumblingly, and Morioka’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the reply.
“You’re a New Year’s baby, eh?” he asked with interest, and I nodded mutely, hoping to the gods that
this would end soon.
After my nod, Morioka’s expression morphed instantly, his look of interest turning into a glower. “You
two couldn’t wait until the end of class to talk about this crap?” He snapped at Hayato and I, and we
both cowered from his anger, watching with a gulp as he crumpled up the note and promptly threw it
out.
With one last glare, he looked between the two of us, frowning deeply. “You two had better cancel any
plans you made for today, because you’re both gonna be staying after to help me clean up.”
Whispers of gossip went around the class faster than the speed of light, though Morioka quickly ended
them by shutting his teacher’s textbook especially loud. He stared the rest of my classmates down in
his intimidating way, holding his textbook under one arm as he lectured.
“Don’t think that you guys can just take it easy now! These two serve as an example for the rest of
you.”
I grit my teeth once Morioka returned to his desk, my eyes askance and staring accusingly at Hayato.
He only gave me his best puppy-dog look in return—and what could I say to that? I sighed, chin in
palm.
It was going to be a long, long afternoon.
---
“Are you done with the erasers yet?”
“Hai, just about,” I answered Hayato’s call from the open window of 1-D where I stood, clapping out
any lingering chalk dust from the board erasers while intermittently coughing. It was a terrible job to
have to do; nonetheless, I felt worse for Hayato, who had to clean the floors. Of all the chores in the
world . . . I would have to say that cleaning floors was my biggest bane.
He worked diligently, though, and checked on me from time to time as he swept and mopped around
the desks. There was only an intense focus in his gaze—a kind of one-minded center that I could
never have. He wiped his brow with his forearm as he started to clean towards the back of the room,
and he was doing such a thorough job that Morioka couldn’t possiblycomplain afterwards.
I would’ve smiled at the thought had I not been overwhelmed with the cloud of chalk dust that flew
around my eyes and mouth, and I sometimes spit out a strange taste. I was only thankful that there
was no harsh, winter wind to throw everything back in my face and into the room where Hayato had
been so diligently cleaning.
A few minutes after I had responded to Hayato’s question, I was satisfied enough with the state of the
erasers to place them back on the rim of the board, sighing as I did so. I didn’t even bother to look up
at the clock to check how much time we had wasted in that room; I assumed that we had been there
for an obscene amount already. Instead, I looked at the “to do” list Morioka had left us on the front
desk, checking off another chore and noticing, quite happily, that there was only one left.
20.) Take stack of essays from second drawer of my desk in the teachers’ office and bring them to
room 2-A. Leave them on the sensei’s desk with a paperweight. –Morioka
2-A.
My blood ran cold at the sight of that number, remembering all too well who had been there the last
time I ran an errand for that bastard Morioka. I simply stood there by the front desk in shock, staring
at the paper for what seemed like an eternity. I wasn’t sure what to do, nor how to do it—it wasn’t
guaranteed that he  would be there, but why take the risk of going?
I must have been standing still even longer than I thought, because Hayato asked me not a moment
later:
“Doushita, Kaho?”
Suddenly, I realized how transparent my expression had been to him; obviously, the look of fear and
anxiousness that I had felt overtake my features had not escaped his watchful eye. I swallowed a bit
nervously, but quickly composed myself well enough to answer.
“Nothing—nothing’s wrong, Hayato,” I said with an uneasy smile, grabbing the keys to Morioka’s desk
that he had left with us in the room. “I’ll take the last chore on the list, ne? You’ve been working too
hard, I think.” I smiled lightly to affirm the sentiment, and he returned it, pausing in his work.
“Arigatou, Kaho.”
There was a certain dazzle behind his warmth that almost blinded me, so I blushed briefly, excusing
myself from the room shortly after. I often found myself running away from situations like that—I
never liked long pauses or awkward silences of any kind.
I took the usual way to the teachers’ office, plopped the essays into my arms after unlocking Morioka’s
desk, and exited the room in under a minute. The only difficult part of the whole process, then, was
stepping beyond the office and heading downstairs to that godforsaken 2-A. I had a strong
premonition that nothing good would come of doing it, though I was forced to nonetheless.
My first few steps were hesitant, at best; after a few more, however, my gait became more normal, if
not somewhat stunted by my nervousness. I took the main staircase down to the upperclassmen’s
homerooms, praying to all the gods that I could think of that I wouldn’t see him. I unconsciously
clutched the papers tighter as I neared the room—conveniently located close to the stairs—and I
paused only once more as my hand touched the door handle, my throat swallowing hard.
“Su—Sumimasen . . .”
My voice unintentionally quivered as I closed my eyes before entering, hoping that when I opened
them my prayers would be answered. I felt a slight breeze from an open window as I took a blind step
inside, yet there was no other indication of any other movement in the room—an encouraging sign, to
be sure.
With great hesitation, I cracked open one eye: nothing.
Then, the other: nothing.
The sigh I breathed out then could not equal anything I had ever exhaled before or since; I was so
filled with gratitude and wonder at my luck that I took my time in walking to the front desk, finally
relaxed to some small extent. I set down the essays with a relieved pair of forearms, though my hand
still rested atop them as I looked for a paperweight.
“Eto . . .” I mumbled to myself, looking around the room from my limited perspective at the front. I
was worried that the wind would blow away the papers, but just standing there and looking like a dolt
wasn’t a much better prospect. I pouted, scanning the room as well I could for any  object that could
weigh down the stack. It seemed a futile mission; after a minute or so more of looking from where I
was, I sighed again, my brow drooping in defeat.
“Looking for this?”
I nearly jumped in fright at the sound of Shimizu’s voice in the empty room, and I reluctantly turned
my head towards the open door where he stood, smirking. In his right hand was a silver cube
paperweight, and he tossed it from one hand to the next, teasing me. Once I recovered from my
shock, I glowered, my hand still firmly planted on the stack of essays.
“How did you know I was here?” I demanded, not even bothering with the paperweight at that point. I
was more disturbed by the fact that he seemed to know all of my movements all  the time, and that he
took great pleasure in exploiting that knowledge for his own, personal (and sick) amusement.
His smirk faded a little as he realized that I hadn’t taken the bait, but he still looked terribly self-
important, continuing to play with the paperweight as he spoke.
“I happen to come in here a lot for student council meetings,” he remarked, “and, well, I thought that
perhaps I had forgotten something in here earlier.”
I reddened in embarrassment as he pointed out such an obvious fact, completely humiliating me. How
could I not remember that 2-A was the council room? And, besides that, that Shimizu was
the president of the freshmen’s student council?
Actually, it’s not that hard to forget that he’s on student council . . . I thought dryly, observing his
immature manners with some lingering contempt. As little as I thought of him, I had to admit that he
seemed more like a bratty kid than a malicious force as compared to when I first met him. His
attitude, if anything, completely gave him away.
“Anyway,” he started again, eyeing me amusedly, “I wasn’t exactly expecting  to find you here, even if
. . .”
He trailed off in such an ambiguous way that I was left feeling unsettled—what had he been trying to
say? I was answered a little later, Shimizu obviously collecting himself well enough to complete his
thought.
“Even if this is the place where we first met.”
For some reason, the way in which he said it sounded strange; it was almost as though he were
meditating on the idea that our “first meeting” had been somehow more significant than I had
previously ascertained it to be. To me, meeting him had been the beginning of one of the most
tumultuous periods in my young life—not exactly an occasion to be specially marked or remembered.
But what had our first meeting meant to him? His softened expression begged that question, from his
furrowed brow to his un-pursed, curiously shaped lips. I could only stare on in silence, not knowing
how to respond to his words. What was an “appropriate” response, anyway? What could anyone say
to something like that?
Both fortunately and, ultimately, unfortunately, I didn’t have time to think up an answer—not while
Shimizu drew closer to me, leaving not even half a meter’s space between us.
My eyes widened in surprise at the move, my back pressing up against the front edge of the teacher’s
desk as I backed away from him, my hand pressing down painfully on the pile of essays. To say that
he was uncomfortably close would be the understatement of the year; what happened next, however,
transcended even my visible anxiety at the intimacy he was creating between us.
“Who was that guy with you yesterday?”
I was incredulous at the question—what business was it of his to ask me such a thing? I scowled,
refusing to give him any information.
“What does it matter? He’s of no concern to you,”  I emphasized the last part to let him know just how
ungracious a mood I was in as far as Hayato was concerned. Shimizu, as per usual, took my words
with a grain of salt, throwing them back in my face.
“How is it of no concern to me when he stared at me like that?” He eyed me suspiciously for a
moment, continuing with: “And don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about—I know that
you saw how he looked at me just as clearly as I did.”
I couldn’t very well say, under those circumstances, that I hadn’t  seen Hayato’s look—indeed, I had
replayed it so many times in my head that I was rather sick of analyzing it, to be frank. My scowl
dissolved into a simple frown, proven wrong by him again.
“I couldn’t tell you what he meant by that,” I lied, crossing my arms stiffly to make my point. “If you
really want to know so badly, then maybe you should just try asking him yourself.”
In reality, that was the last thing I would ever  want Shimizu to do, but since I had run out of good
comebacks and ways of detracting him, I had ended up saying something that I hadn’t intended to.
His eyes tightened on me, harsh yet strangely curious.
“Why can’t you ever tell me the truth, Watanabe?”
I looked away from him, trying not to roll my eyes at the oft-repeated query. “I already told you—I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He always seemed to get angrier at this answer—instead of biting back, though, he only moved in
closer, further heightening my unease to nearly astronomical levels.
“Is it really that hard? You’ve done it once before,” he reminded me of my outburst a few days earlier,
and I blushed a littleagain, hating myself for doing so. If anything, I wanted to act more masculine
around him to ward him off, not more feminine so that I might further attract his unwanted
attentions!
I looked him square in the eye, spurred on by his relentless questions despite the constrained
atmosphere.
“Hai, Shimizu—I find it nearly impossible to do with you.”
At that, he finally cut off my last chance of escape, his hands seizing the desk’s edge on either side of
my body with stiff, unyielding arms. I felt my lower back begin to throb, realizing then that there was
no further space for me to move back in. The hand that still lay atop the essays froze in place; my
arm had unknowingly become interlocked with his when he had created his frame around me. He
stared at me with an unnerving central focus, acting as if he had completely isolated us from the
outside world.
“Is that so?” He countered my snappy reply with a drawled-out, low tone—one that confused me in its
intent.
My thoughts, jumbled as they were from his closeness and my own permanent bemusement over the
whole situation, still managed to string together an answer (though haltingly).
“Wh—Why do you care so much?”
I couldn’t stand it—that lack of breathing space between us had made me delusional, unintelligible,
and disoriented. My heart raced as though I had just run a mile, and the rouge that colored me from
head to toe must have been visible to him as well.
But he was unrelenting in his inexplicable behavior, his locked arms showing no signs of allowing me
to leave.
“I told you once before,” he murmured, his head hanging above mine. “Do I have to say it again?”
His breath tickled my hair as he spoke, and I felt the blush that had originally come from our
proximity start to feed off his words as well. My own breathing began to grow heavier, wondering
what had changed in his demeanor in so short a time—his voice had instantly become richer,
darker, deeper.
What are you doing?
My eyes snapped open after being in a half-shut daze for a few moments, trying desperately to obey
the wishes of my rational mind. I turned away from Shimizu again, attempting to ignore the entreaty
that his eyes held.
“Doushita, Watanabe?”
Stop it. Don’t  listen  to him.
The rumble of his voice reminded me of Hayato, yet at the same time it was entirely different—the
quality, I suspect, was more masculine. I secretly marveled at it, though showed little outward sign of
my admiration.
You can’t do this, Kaho.
“Wakaranai.”  (3)
I didn’t recognize my own voice when I said that word—had it really been me? When I looked at
Shimizu for his reaction, I swallowed nervously.
He looked at me with surprise, as I had expected him to; what I didn’t know then, however, was just
how much he had taken that simple answer to heart.
“‘Wakaranai’ . . . ?” he echoed with a wondering look, his eyes searching out the meaning of the
phrase in mine. “I somehow find that hard to believe, Watanabe.”
My own eyes challenged his gaze after he spoke, and I lifted my chin a bit higher, our noses almost
touching. The heat in the room, in those confines, was maddening.
“You find a lot of things hard to believe, Shimizu,” I replied cuttingly, though my tone was abnormally
gentle in that context. I suspected that his looming presence over and around me had softened my
attack, and that his voice, whether on purpose or not, had lulled me into a more passive state.
Don’t give him any power. He will only hurt you.
He chuckled a bit at the comment, and due to the propinquity of our bodies I felt even the smallest of
vibrations from his chest as he laughed, the sound waves penetrating my quickly-crumbling defenses.
I felt my hand loosen almost entirely on the essays, my formerly inflexible arm relaxing against his.
He will only hurt you, Kaho.
With mere centimeters between my throbbing heart and his, he finally relaxed his enclosing around
me, a smile gracing his peach-colored lips.
“Hai, I do—especially  with you, Watanabe.”
His right hand reached up from the edge that it had been grasping, shifting towards my face in a slow,
soft movement. My eyes unconsciously fluttered shut, expecting some kind of extraordinary
sensation; at that point, I had given up on reasoning my way out of his hold.
You’ll never learn, will you?
“Kaho! Oi, are you still there? I finished clean—”
Whose voice is that? It sounds like—
I became still, my eyes bursting open in an instant.
Hayato.
Without even sparing a glance at Shimizu, I wrenched my head towards the doorway, my eyes
bugging out in a total, utter, comatose-like stupor.
“H—Haya—Hayat—”
He interrupted me with a small, affected, and pitiably weak smile, scratching the back of his head in
faux embarrassment.
“Ah, gomen ne! I didn’t realize that you two were in here. Sumimasen!”
And with that, he hurriedly left. It had all happened so quickly that I didn’t have much time to react;
nevertheless, I felt my limp arms suddenly push Shimizu away, giving me some space to move around
in. He appeared puzzled rather than surprised, watching me in consternation.
“Watanabe, what . . . what was that all about?”
I pressed my palm against my face in bewilderment, shaking my head vigorously as I struggled to
conjure an explanation for everything that had occurred in the past minute. How could I have
entangled myself so thoroughly in so short a time? I realized then that my brain had been warning me
all along, though the epiphany came much too late to do me any good. Instead, I felt worse than ever
for not following my usual reasoning and staying well away from Shimizu—how I had even let myself
go as far as I had was a mystery to my conscious mind.
Suddenly, I felt Shimizu’s fingers wrap imploringly around my wrist, pulling my hand away from my
face. I stared at him in silence, reddening with every second that passed.
“Answer me, Watanabe.”
I yanked my wrist from his grasp easily, taking a few steps back to safeguard myself from him.
“Iie.”
Tears stung at my eyes when I glanced at him one last time, my lips trembling. I looked and felt
utterly weak in his presence, but I didn’t care. Without saying a word, I turned on my heel and ran
from 2-A, never hearing Shimizu calling out to me as I sped away. My heart pounded—pounded so
loudly that my brief lapse in judgment with Shimizu was erased almost instantaneously.
I could only go forth, forever trailing after the one thing that I wanted most in the world.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 everyone
2 “Good luck!”
3 “I don’t know.”
Title of chapter (translated): Deeper
Author’s Note: Well...normally I would believe that the length of this chapter by itself should excuse
its late delivery, but even Iknow, as a reader and author, that my long pauses really are horrid! It did
take a lot of time and effort, however, to complete this chapter—I wasn’t quite sure how to pace all
the events within it at first, since I was ambivalent for a while about whether or not to include Shimizu
and Kaho’s little “dance of seduction” at all. But then I thought, well...if there’s any place to start
putting some punch into the fic, then chapter seven is as good as any! If any of my readers are
uncomfortable with the attraction between Kaho and Shimizu (in the sense that they may believe it is
going along too quickly), I will provide a couple answers. As far as Shimizu is concerned, I have
dropped clues every so often about his underlying sentiments towards Kaho (which many of you have
picked up on quite easily anyway), so I don’t think that his behavior is all that unusual. Now, with
Kaho—we all must remember that she’s only fifteen and, whether she likes to admit or not, a pretty
fragile character. She’s still a girl under that tough exterior, so being close to a guy like Shimizu that’s
pretty handsome and that she has some chemistry with is sure to throw her off, ne? Anyway, enough
of my justification! I just like to clear things up, anyway. smiles
CHAPTER 8 PREVIEW:
After Hayato disastrously walks in on the “scene” between Kaho and Shimizu, how will Kaho explain
her relationship (or lack thereof) with Shimizu? And how will Kaho act around and think of
Shimizu now?
 
 
Chapter 8: Seppun
 
 
could only run.
The sound of Shimizu’s voice as it followed me for a time was eventually drowned out by the rain that
smacked against my face, though I barely noticed either of the two. Only the choked, ragged sound of
my own breathing reached my ears, with everything else fading into the distance. My vision, though
blurred, was tightly focused.
Hayato.
His name was the only complete thought I could put together; I saw the rain-stroked outline of his
back, that once-crisp blue blazer bogged down by the tears of the heavens. He looked crestfallen even
from where I was nearly two blocks away. Seeing him like that, I guess my legs just moved on their
own.
Hayato.
The tears streamed down then, mixing with my drenched skin. I had forgotten everything else as I
drew closer to him—
One block away, then five meters away, then . . . then . . .
He must have heard my footsteps behind him, because he suddenly stopped in the middle of the
sidewalk. Had I not been able to catch myself at the last second, I’m pretty sure that I would’ve
collided into his back.
Instead, my run slowed until I was able to simply walk up behind him, clutching the back of his blazer
with soaked fingers. His clothes were just as wet as mine, and just as cold from the winter rain;
nevertheless, I pressed my front against his back, digging my head into his jacket. Tears were
gushing by that point, unable to hold themselves back.
“Gomen nasai,” I gasped out between sobs, feeling all the worse as I clutched to him tighter, not
letting him see my shame.“Gomen nasai. Gomen nasai.  Gomen nasai.”
I shuddered, my grip loosening on him as he turned around, taking my hands in his. His, unlike mine,
were strong; at the same time, however, there was uncertainty in his hold.
“Kaho . . . why are you saying that? You—you don’t have anything to be sorry about,” he asked,
though his voice trembled by the time he had finished. I heard that pause, and my cries started
afresh, my body growing weaker.
“Gomen nasai, gomen nasai . . .”
I kept repeating the phrase like a broken record, seeing the pain in his beautiful brown eyes. His
usually lively black hair was matted to his face, but he looked wonderful anyway. I hicupped through a
sob, my head turning away from his.
He looked confused, hurt, concerned; I obviously wasn’t making any sense to him or to myself. With a
choked, rueful laugh, he said:
“K—Kaho, if you don’t stop saying that, I . . . I might start crying too.”
Hearing him say that was enough to make my knees give out, and I slumped from his grip to the hard
pavement below, my cries growing quieter yet more powerful. Sobs wracked my entire frame, and I
shook like a hairless dog. As my eyes closed, I began to grow accustomed to the bitter cold of the
rain, fully expecting him to just leave me there in my own misery.
“Kaho.”
A pair of gentle but sturdy arms enveloped me, bending my head to rest on a slick, yet comforting,
shoulder. I heard shivering breaths enter my sensitive ears—in an instant, I knew who it was.
“Kaho . . . Kaho . . .”
I let the warmth of his voice and the compassion of his embrace overtake my senses, let it numb me
to my core. I clutched to him even tighter than before, though my mind was quickly going.
I only wanted to hear him say my name, to hear him say it in that beautiful, heartbroken way.
--
I stared into the bathroom mirror.
My hair was beyond drying, my eyes bloodshot as anything. It felt as though the rain had sunken
through my clothes and entered my pores, so soaked was I by it. Dry clothes rested in my hands, but
I felt badly for holding them in the first place. I was only making them wet.
How did I get here?
From the time that I had collapsed on the sidewalk till then, I had little recollection of anything that
had happened. Even to this day, I have the memory of an amnesiac when it comes to all the little
events leading up to being in that bathroom. All I could remember then and now was that after I had
fallen on the sidewalk, I had managed to pick myself up (with Hayato’s help), walk with him back to
his house, and get a spare change of clothes from him—thus ending up in front of that mirror, staring
blankly at my reflection with little knowledge of what had just passed.
I changed into Hayato’s spare slacks and sweater as slowly as I could, peeling off my sticky school
uniform and placing it, as delicately as possible, into the laundry bin outside. After a time, I managed
to feel comfortable in the big clothes, gingerly stepping out of the bathroom and walking, as if in a
daze, to the kitchen.
“Ah, Kaho! I was wondering when you’d come out of there.”
His playful tone managed to cheer me up a bit as my eyes lifted to meet his, small smiles gracing both
of our lips. He tossed me a white towel, and when I stared at him questioningly, he pointed to his
head in reply.
I reddened in embarrassment, draping the cloth over my hair and beginning to massage the rainwater
out of it, though hesitantly. He grinned a little at my pause, though that look soon disappeared as he
rounded the bend of the counter, quickly turning off the stove. I watched curiously as he poked at
whatever he was cooking, sipping a sample of the broth with a ladle. His lips twitched for a moment
afterwards, then turned up in a satisfied grin.
“Well, looks like this is done! Sit down, onegai,” he gestured towards the table, and I pulled out a
chair, seating myself tentatively. I wasn’t exactly hungry, nor was I content of stomach; I just felt a
bit out of sorts and dizzy. Considering the strange things that had occurred that day, I don’t think that
I could’ve blamed myself for not knowing what to do, either. I fiddled with a loose thread from the
sweater as Hayato prepared our meals, though my movements stopped as soon as I felt a strong
sneeze coming on.
Just as Hayato set down our bowls of soup, in fact, I let out such a tremendous sneeze that I nearly
fell back in my chair, taken aback by the strength of my own bodily actions. He looked just as
surprised when I looked up again, though I was too busy sniffling to notice anything else.
“Kaho . . .” he said slowly, leaving the soups where they were and coming over to me, “you don’t look
so good. Did you get a cold out there?”
I shook my head, but only seconds later did I let out another great sneeze. That, in turn, confirmed
Hayato’s suspicions. He looked at me worriedly, then pushed aside the soup, placing my head against
his. I jumped a bit at the action, not having recovered from my own sneeze, and then blushed
unnecessarily. He paid no heed to my emotional instability, pulling back with a soft sigh just as I had
started getting used to the warmth between us.
“I’ll warm up the soup for you later,” he told me gently, carrying my portion to the counter and
placing wrap around it. I stared in question, though he continued shortly. “Right now, you just need
some rest. Here, I’ll get the futon out for you and some extra blankets too.”
I had figured out by that time that he had measured my temperature somehow, and was now insisting
that I go to sleep. Not that I objected much to that course of action, but . . . it was all just too weird
to be perfectly fine with. Was this not the same Hayato that had just run out on me into the pouring
rain after seeing me in the embrace of his longtime crush? Had he not just pretended to not care?
My head ached as I remembered the precarious position that Hayato had found me and Shimizu in
earlier; what had led up to that situation, exactly? To be honest, I recalled all those events quite
vividly—though I would never admit that that crystal-clear recollection was to Shimizu’s credit. I
refused to put those memories on rerun mode, closing my eyes especially hard in an attempt to
discredit Shimizu’s lingering effect on me.
By the time I opened my eyes, the futon was set out in the living room next to the sofa, all laid out
and prepared for me to rest on it. I lazily walked over to the bedspread, suddenly feeling rather tired.
Nearly falling over myself in my attempt to bend down and get myself in the position necessary for
sleeping, I felt Hayato catch me softly, guiding my movements with a cautious hand.
I blushed faintly, but otherwise showed little more than extreme weariness. Once I was safely settled
into the futon, I looked up, seeing Hayato sit down on the sofa in front of me. I furrowed my brow,
blinking confusedly.
“Aren’t you . . . aren’t you going to eat anything?”
He smiled a little, then leaned down, brushing a stray hair from my face. I hid my burning cheeks with
the covers, staring at him like a small child.
“Just sleep, Kaho.”
I did.
--
Upon awakening, I heard the clattering of pots and cups, and smelled the strong scent of tea leaves
coming from the kitchen. I slowly sat up, holding my head momentarily to recover from the pains of
waking up.
As if on cue, Hayato arrived, carrying with him a tray with a teapot and teacups atop it. He sat down
next to my futon, precariously placing the drink next to him on the floor. Noticing my not-entirely-
awake state, he grinned a bit, pressing the back of his hand against my forehead.
“You’re a little better,” he remarked, pouring out the tea in one deft motion. I watched admiringly as
his athletic yet nimble hands offered me the beverage; I accepted it promptly, smiling briefly before
taking a sip, ignoring the burning sensation on my tongue.
“Arigatou, Hayato,” I said gratefully, placing the steaming-hot cup in my blanket-covered lap. I could
say little else after that—I was never good at handling conversations, anyway.
He looked pleased with my gratitude, but there was sadness belying his surface expression. It was a
sadness whose source I knew all too well, and it pained me to think on how much it must have hurt
him to not have any time to himself to mull over what he had seen earlier.
I tried to distract him from his morose thoughts, looking quizzical. “How long have I been asleep,
anyway?” I asked naively, eliciting a laugh from him. I pouted at his amusement, though he smirked a
moment later, containing himself.
“About sixteen hours, now.”
I blinked, as if not hearing what he had just said; in fact, I was simply incredulous of such a
number. Sixteen hours??  Was it even possible to sleep that long? I couldn’t remember the last time
that I had had even six hours of sleep!
I tried to speak, shocked as I was, though could only get out: “So, it’s about . . .”
“Five o’clock. December sixteenth.” He finished for me, and my mouth was still open like a gaping
fish’s by the time he was done. He laughed again at my awe, and that time I managed to give him a
good glare for it. He only chuckled a bit more at my ignorance, pointing at the tea that sat in my lap.
“You’d better drink that before it gets cold,” he cautioned me, and I chortled at the warning, holding
the cup by the rim.
“Believe me, Hayato—this tea will never  get cold.”
We both got a good laugh out of that, though silence quickly ensued afterwards; it seemed then that
we both had something to say to each other, though neither of us knew quite how to say it. It was the
first time in nearly two days, I realized, that either of us had come even relatively close to confronting
each other over what had happened the day before.
Soon after, that spark of indecision died and gave life to normal, undiluted conversation. It was casual
enough; nevertheless, that same sense of unresolved conflict was underlying it all.
--
It was only weeks later that I understood that I had fumbled where I should have been strong and
unwavering. Rather than facing the obstacles in my life head-on, I had chosen to let my conflicts
simmer and bubble, willfully ignoring what they would eventually become. Hayato did the same, only
helping to reinforce my self-induced state of denial.
“Kaho! Bring over the beer and popcorn! The movie’s about to start!”
“Matte yo,  I’m coming!”
It was our usual Christmas Eve tradition—I would go over his house or vice versa, we would rent a
couple of holiday-themed films, and then watch them and eat until we were physically unable to
move. The only difference that year was that Hayato’s father had left an eight-pack of beer in the
fridge, and as the curious, immature teenagers that we were, we decided to take advantage of all the
alcohol available to us, good or bad.
I was surprised by Hayato’s interest in the beer—as much as I loved him, I never saw him as much of
a drinker, and had in fact assumed that were there alcohol available to us at any time in the near
future, he would probably keep it off-limits and act as the responsible adult. How he actually  reacted
hadn’t been at all what I had in mind, but that didn’t mean that I hated it. In fact, it was simply
another facet of his personality that I took pleasure in exploring.
I nearly sprinted over with “the goods” and leaped into a sitting position beside him, two beers in one
hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. He gave me a look of approval, raising an eyebrow
admiringly.
“Impressive.”
“Would you expect anything less of me?” I asked cockily back, smirking as he snatched a bottle from
my hand and the popcorn with the other. I punched his arm playfully, almost making him spill his
drink; he set his drink down warily before leaping onto my small frame, attacking me with tickles to
my abdomen.
He only halted in his antics once the movie finally started, and I panted a bit, out of air from both
laughing and screaming for him to stop. With one final shakedown, I settled myself, leaning my back
comfortably against the foot of the sofa as Hayato did.
Smiling pleasantly to myself, I cracked open the bottle, took a small swig, and felt my muscles loosen
up even more.
--
The movie had proved more boring than I had expected when I checked it out at the rental store; by
the halfway point Hayato was beginning to doze off, though I suspected that he had simply drank too
much—about three beers, give or take—in too short a time. The popcorn bag, its contents having been
consumed a long time ago, lay crunched by Hayato’s feet, entirely forgotten by both him and myself.
I sighed, picking up the remote and turning off the film. I was feeling a bit woozy from the beer
myself, weak as it was. It wasn’t my first experience with alcohol, but then again, I certainly wasn’t an
expert in the field. I was prone, as a young adult, to drinking without eating; that, in turn, lead to the
current situation.
“Why’d you turn it off?” Hayato mumbled almost incoherently, noticing that he was watching a black
screen. It appeared that he was affected by alcohol in the same way I was—drowsiness. An
unfortunate way to end an otherwise fun evening, but at the same time appropriate. I sighed at his
grumbling, looking askance.
“Why do you think? Neither of us was watching it.”
He weakly protested, “I was. Isn’t that . . . isn’t that a little unfair to me?”
I nearly snorted at his drunken rambling, crossing my arms languidly. “Oh please. The only thing
you’re watching is that popcorn bag over there—and even that isn’t holding your attention very well.”
Though I even found my reply rather caustic, he only laughed abrasively, grinning.
“Ya got me there.”
I was taken aback by the comment, but comforted by his lack of motor skills to register my tone of
voice. I wondered what exactly he was aware of at that moment—could he even see anything clearly
by that point?
He spoke again after a long pause, unhurriedly answering my silent query.
“You know, Kaho . . . I never asked you about—about why . . . why you were with . . .”
I froze in place at his words; I knew exactly where they were going, and my fingers involuntarily
shook in the silence that followed Hayato’s piece. I waited for a while for him to finish his thought,
though I didn’t want him to do anything of the sort.
Luckily, the alcohol had sat long enough in his system to really start impacting his processes—without
finishing his sentence, he fell asleep, his eyes soundly closed.
I breathed an immense sigh of relief, thankful that I hadn’t entered a state of complete mortification.
On the other hand, however . . . he had already said too much. I closed my eyes, leaning back into
the sofa again and feeling a dull sensation of sleepiness begin to cloud my own senses. I was never
one to stay awake when others were sound asleep beside me; the environment tended to affect me
just as much as anything else did.
It was then that I began to lose sight of my boundaries—somewhere between casually sipping a beer
and watching Hayato as he slept—and my inhibitions soon became a casualty of my stupor. In a haze
my eyes scanned over Hayato’s sleeping face: his flickering eyelashes, his delicate nose, his masculine
lips. I unconsciously moved closer to him, my frame turning sideways to get a better look at him—and
my hand followed shortly thereafter, my fingers gently tracing the contours of his cheekbones with
little knowledge of what they were actually doing.
At one point, he mumbled something under his breath, perhaps unconsciously unsettled by the feeling
of my touch against his skin; that interruption soon subsided, however, giving way to further
examination of his handsome features. This time, he didn’t move an inch, seeming to fall into an even
deeper slumber in response to my ministrations. I smiled in a languorous way, drawing closer still to
his motionless body.
“Hayato.”
I whispered his name in a daze, my face mere centimeters from his; his lips were more tempting than
ever. He stirred slightly from his rest upon hearing his name, a faint rumbling coming from his broad
chest.
“Hmm?”
I knelt comfortably between his outspread legs, my fingers coming to touch his resting lips once more.
They ran over the top lip, then the bottom—slipping away, away from him. I could only go forward,
and as I did, so did my mouth.
That was my first kiss.
--------------------------
Title of chapter (translated): Kiss
Author’s Note: Sorry for the obscenely long wait on this chapter—I simply got discouraged for a while
about the lack of reviews for the chapter that I had worked so lovingly on, so it was difficult to
motivate myself to write this one. As you can see, I didn’t include Shimizu in this chapter; he might
not be present very often in the next one either, as I’m exploring the relationship between Kaho and
Hayato a bit more (it’s gotten rather complicated now, ha). Again, sorry for the wait, but I
really, reallywant your feedback! I appreciate it more than anything else.
CHAPTER 9 PREVIEW:
After Kaho’s error in judgment, how will she face the ramifications of her actions? Will she or Hayato
ever be able to confront the issue of Shimizu? Will Shimizu begin to better understand the
“relationship” between Kaho and Hayato? Find out next chapter . . .
 
 
 
Chapter 9: Jikko
 
There were quite a few things running through my mind for the week after Christmas; for one, I
couldn’t seem to stop pacing my room in rumination every minute or so.
What were you thinking?
I bit my lip nervously, wringing my hands in front of me as the process of self-incrimination began all
over again, my eyes fixated on the floor.
Why would you do that to him?
My steps grew harsher and harder as my pacing grew quicker, louder, and more insistent on the
wooden floors beneath my feet.
What if that had been his first kiss too?
I suddenly stopped, haunted by the idea behind the question. It had been ringing in my head for days
by then, and I could do little but feel worse whenever I managed to bring it up again.
If my conscience was set on making me miserable, it was certainly succeeding.
Not that I didn’t always feel guilty about something or other when it came to Hayato—I surely did—
but the actions I had taken the week before had rung particularly afflicting to my culpable spirit,
especially since I had orchestrated them (though in a haphazard and veritably unconscious manner).
This time, the fault lied solely with my person, and my guilt-plagued mind was only too happy to
accept yet another self-caused case of gloom.
“Kahoko! Would you stop that incessant noise you’re making? I’m trying to do paperwork here.”
I promptly looked towards the door to my room where my mother stood, irritated by my “incessant”
pacing, as she had characterized it. I hadn’t realized then that though I had stopped for a time, it
hadn’t taken my mother too long to reach my door and yell at me between gritted teeth. I became
meek instantly, though my usual gruffness towards her managed to snake its way into my words.
“Gomen, ’kaasan. I’ll . . . try not to do that anymore.”
She eyed me for a moment to check if I was telling the truth, then shut the door behind her as she
left, prowling back to her office with a frown. I sighed lightly when I saw the lock click into place
again, sinking down into my bed afterwards. I wondered: if my mother hadn’t interrupted, would I
have retreated into my usual self-sustaining cycle of despair? In a way, I supposed that I was glad for
the invasion of my privacy, if only for a short while. Having too much time to myself never resulted in
anything worthwhile.
Nevertheless, I kept going back to that last rhetorical question that I had asked myself; it was, after
all, an important one. What if I had stolen his first kiss? Me, Kaho, his best friend and most trusted
confidante? What would he think of me if he ever found out? Could I even afford for something like
that to happen? Why had I let myself go like that in the first place?
There were no real answers to any of those queries, much as I tried to search for them; for all that I
knew of Hayato (which was a lot), how was I to be certain that that hadn’t  been his first kiss? I
honestly had to wonder what bothered me more: the thought that I had taken his first kiss from him
while he had been unconscious, or that he had kissed someone before me (which rendered my action
rather meaningless). If it were the former, I would simply feel like a terrible person, but if it were the
latter, jealousy would seize my heart in an instant.
Both options, in summation, weren’t pretty.
The only good thing about that whole mess was that it had all taken place over the winter break—
even my little “run-out” on Shimizu had occurred just in time for vacation, and so I was relieved in
that small way that most of the damage was minimized. Well, for then at least.
“Kahoko! Phone for you!”
I glared askance at the door when I heard my mother use my full name for the second  time that day,
and with a small mutter I picked up the house phone in my room, answering somewhat glumly.
“Hai?”
“Kaho! It’s me.”
My heart raced a little, albeit reflexively. I held the phone closer to my ear. “Oh, Hayato. Nani?”
I tried to sound nonchalant—obviously, as I heard him laugh on the other end, I failed.
“Nani mo.  (1) Just remember that I’m coming over tonight at 6 to pick you up, ne?”
“Hai, hai, I remember!” I lied brilliantly, smiling awkwardly. “Do I need to wear anything special?”
He chuckled a bit, and I could tell that he was smirking through the phone. “Wear whatever you like,
Kaho. It’s  your  birthday, after all.”
Oh. Right. I had forgotten all about that.
---
I found myself rummaging through my clothes in the blink of an eye, tossing shirts and pants and the
occasional skirt in the air as my hands slipped their way into the depths of my closet. How I had
gotten so worked up over the upcoming events of that night . . . well, it wasn’t really a mystery, but it
still felt strange. I was usually so laidback about getting dressed, but all I could think about then was:
Would he like a long skirt? A blouse, maybe? No, wait, these jeans make my butt look
bigger. Kuso!  (2)  Why would he care about my butt anyway?!
It was a maddening train of thought that ended when my eyes landed on a long-sleeved, red cotton
top and a pair of jeans that I had had for as long as I could remember. Certainly, the choice wasn’t
exactly what I had had in mind, but anything flashier than that would be suspicious. I slipped on the
top and pulled on the jeans, checking myself constantly in the mirror for reassurance.
How long had it been since he had called me, anyway?
I glanced out my window, surprised at how dark it was outside already. Then again, it was winter . . .
I sighed a bit, sitting back on my bed and letting my feet bounce a bit for a while.
Is he coming yet or  what?
I frowned as my mind complained like a child would, and I looked at the mirror once more, touching
my face lightly for any imperfections there. Upon finding the usual grievances with my features, I
resigned myself to apparent indifference, lying on the bed with my eyes safely shut.
“Kahoko! Wakamoto-san is here!”
I shot up from my position on the bed, eyes wide and alert.
“Coming!”
I ran down the hall from my room, nearly ramming into Hayato as my feet flew faster than my
thoughts. I stopped just short of him from where he stood at the door, looking taken aback from my
sudden arrival.
“Oi, Kaho . . . daijoubu?”
No reply came to me as I took his appearance in; I could find no words to tell him how overjoyed I
was to see him.
He was dressed in a pressed white shirt and a black tie, with formal black pants and a blazer to
match. As my eyes raked his figure from top to bottom I noted, amusedly, that he was wearing
sneakers.
“Nice ensemble,” I remarked with a smirk, my eyes never leaving his feet. He followed my line of
sight, and coughed a bit in embarrassment once he understood my meaning.
“My other shoes were too dirty,” he defended, though I simply laughed.
I really adore you.
Hayato let himself laugh a bit at the ridiculousness of it all, though I saw him eye me and my outfit
shortly afterwards. It was my turn to blush then, suddenly realizing how much he had out-dressed me
on that occasion.
“Gomen, Hayato, I’ll go and change—”
“Don’t bother. You look beautiful,” he interrupted, smiling sincerely. I blushed deeper at the
compliment, wringing my hands a bit behind my back like a sodding schoolgirl.
“Arigatou,” I thanked him quietly, looking to the side sheepishly. He rustled my hair playfully, then
looked towards the kitchen where, apparently, my mother had gone.
“Watanabe-san?” He called out to her from where we stood, and I froze for a little in place, unnerved
by the mere suggestion that my mother was close by.
“Nani, Wakamoto-kun?” Her voice answered, and I heard her move back into the area of the main
foyer to speak further with Hayato. She was perfectly sweet with him—such a contrast, I thought.
He smiled politely, giving a small bow of respect. “I was wondering if I could take your daughter out
for the night—if you would allow her to stay in my home overnight, as well.”
She laughed a little, crossing her arms in good humor. “Well, seeing as you’re all dressed up and
ready to go, I don’t see how I can say no.” Hayato bowed politely again, thanking my mother as I
grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door, quite ready to leave as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, things were never that simple.
My mother rushed a bit to meet us at the door, stopping Hayato before he could open it. “Matte—I’m
really very curious. What’s the occasion?”
I blanched at the question; as soon as she asked it, I looked away from her, turning up the collar of
my black jacket. Hayato only appeared confused, about to answer her until I cut him off curtly.
“It’s nothing, okaasan. Oyasumi nasai.” (3)
---
I walked ahead of Hayato as we left my small residence, the pain of my mother’s words burning in my
skull despite my best efforts to quell it.
“Kaho—Oi, Kaho! Would you stop walking so fast already?!”
I slowed my gait down to a halt, feeling suddenly stiff in my shoulders as I stood underneath the
fluorescent glow of a street lamp. I heard him catch up to me, slightly panting, with tendrils of white
air escaping his lips and circling around my face.
He planted himself in front of me a moment later, staring at me quizzically.
“What was that about back there?”
My jaw flinched at the query, and I averted my gaze in order to temper my reaction.
“Nothing, Hayato. Let’s just go, ne?” I tried, quite unsuccessfully, to hide my deep-seated bitterness
about what had happened, but he saw right through me. I couldn’t expect any less from him, anyway.
He glared fiercely at my reply, grabbing my left forearm with a determined grip.
“Don’t lie to me, Kaho. I hate it when you lie.” There was such a force of will in his stare that I
couldn’t keep our eyes locked for long, reddening in both embarrassment and anger. I ripped my arm
from his grasp, my fingers tightening into callous fists.
“And I hate it when you ask me all these damn questions!” I shouted, unable to contain myself. I
fumed despite my own aversion to getting too fired up, crossing my arms as the cold air bit at me.
When I heard him make no move to counter my exclamation, my arms loosed themselves from their
crossed position, my ire gradually turning into undeniable sadness.
“I mean, it’s my birthday, Hayato—isn’t it? Why do I have to put up with this shit today?”
The entirety of his expression changed when I said that, when he saw tears start to well up in my
eyes; he gently came towards me, and for once, I didn’t mind receiving his pity. I wasn’t the kind of
person to push away a reassuring hand if it meant well, or if I really needed it like then. His arm
draped itself across my shoulders, his free hand wiping away the tears that had started to trickle down
my cheeks.
“Let’s just go back to my place, ne?”
I looked up at him confusedly, my tears subsiding. “But . . . you’re all dressed up, I don’t want to
mess up your plans—”
“You could never do that, Kaho,” he told me softly, kissing the top of my head fondly. With a smile, he
added: “Besides, what does it matter where we go? We can celebrate your birthday anywhere.”
I smiled through my sniffling, leaning my head on his shoulder comfortably.
“I guess so.”
---
“So, wait, let me get this straight,” I interrupted Hayato’s story, “you, Wakamoto Hayato, told one of
Endo’s girls to ‘get her act together’ and then ‘get back to you’?”
Hayato gave me a “look” over his marble soda, taking a sip and loosening his black tie on his now
wrinkled white shirt, his shoes and jacket thrown to the wayside long ago.
“You make it seem a lot worse than it actually was,” he said, placing the bottle on the ground as he
took another bite out of the small, surprise birthday cake that he had made for me. I raised an
eyebrow incredulously at his answer.
“Oh? And how is that, Hayato? I mean, blowing off a girl is one thing, but saying something
like that to her? Come on, Haya-chan,” I teased, using his childhood nick name. “As noble a guy as
you are, even you have to crack sometimes under pressure.”
He rolled his eyes at my words, setting his plastic fork down on his empty plate. Afterwards, he
seemed to stare at me for a time, though I was too oblivious to notice. I sat comfortably, finishing off
the last bit of cake on my plate with a small grin on my features. I was about to lick off the puff of
icing that was left on the edge of my fork, but Hayato quickly ended my small bit of peaceful eating.
He pounced on me in that predatory way of his, and again I was the unsuspecting target of one of his
infamous tickle attacks. The fork slipped out of my hand as I fell to the ground on my back, the icing
getting smudged on my right cheek in the chaos that ensued. I yelped and giggled at his actions,
though I was feeling much too full to actually fight back, thus giving him an unfair advantage over me.
Once he started to slow down in his tickling, however, I suddenly felt renewed of strength, knocking
him onto his back in an unexpected move. My legs unconsciously straddled his hips as I tried
desperately to hold him in place and, amazingly, I seemed to be succeeding at that. I nearly brayed at
the expression of surprise and faux ferocity that he held when I had him fixed there, and, after a
couple of minutes with my legs somehow winning out, he seemed to relent, collapsing back on the
floor in exaggerated defeat.
I laughed at his antics, my back resting against his bent legs as I continued to sit atop him,
disregarding his obvious discomfort at my position. He grumbled in fake annoyance, and I stuck my
tongue out at him playfully, smirking triumphantly. After another moment of just lying there, he finally
propped his torso up by his elbows, his stomach inclining downwards as he stared at me with a big
smile on his lips, his hair amusingly mussed from our tussle.
“Are you enjoying yourself there?” he asked jokingly, and I grinned a little at first, not saying
anything. I only stared back at him, slowly becoming aware of just how interesting of a position I was
in with regards to Hayato.
My eyes left his as they traced his muscular figure through the thin white shirt, rather unabashedly
admiring his strong build. My legs unconsciously tightened around his waist, and the hands that had
formerly lain by the wayside came to rest atop his toned stomach, though not totally in a suggestive
manner. I found that my gaze eventually traveled back up to his face, though I can’t imagine how
different it must have looked when it met his. I felt clouded in thought, in mind, in body.
“Kiss me.”
He blinked once.
“Nani?”
I snapped awake instantly, my hands leaving his body. I continued to stare at him, albeit with a much
more frightened expression.
“Kaho? Daijoubu?”
I automatically responded that time, smiling faintly and giving him a tiny nod.
“Hai.”
He gave me a smile in return, small as it was, though it quickly evolved into a look of furrowed
curiosity. His left hand reached up to my face, and I visibly flinched when his skin made contact with
my right cheek. With a soft motion, his hot fingers moved up towards the cheekbone, and then, with a
slight rub, they left altogether, leaving me a bit nonplussed. I saw a moment later what he had done,
my face crimsoning immediately.
On Hayato’s thumb and forefinger was the last of the cake’s icing that had been splattered across my
cheek, and with a coy look, he easily licked it off from them. My blush deepened a million times at the
gesture, and I jumped off of him in a moment, my head hot from the red that penetrated it. In the
background, I could faintly hear Hayato’s hardy laughing, obviously taking amusement from my utter
embarrassment.
“Baka!” I exclaimed as I sat with my back to him, giving him a mighty glare as he proceeded to laugh
even louder and harder at my displeasure.
When I sat like that for a while longer, I heard him puff out a few more laughs before settling himself
behind me on the floor, drawing me into a hug.
“Oh, come on, Kaho,” he said playfully, blowing into my ear as I tried to wrestle out of his embrace.
He chuckled at my childishness, resting his chin in the crook of my neck once I calmed down enough
for him to speak again. His arms were easily locked around my small frame, and I could tell that he
had a winning grin on his features before he even said anything.
“So, are you up for anything else tonight?” he asked casually, and I felt limp in his arms, shrugging
tiredly.
“Not really.”
He sighed at my unexcitable mindset, his chin starting to dig into my shoulder.
“What should we do then?”
I shrugged weakly again. “I don’t know.”
He paused for a second, his arms loosening. “You look tired. Maybe we should just go to bed?”
I felt my body go taut at the suggestion before I realized what he had meant, and I looked to the side,
resigned.
“Can we sleep here?”
His chin left my shoulder as it looked towards the direction of the couch, and suddenly I was missing
its warmth on my skin. His head rested atop mine a second later, and some relief came with that
action.
“All right then.”
He helped me up after he had gotten onto his feet, pulling me up by my hands and guiding me
towards the fairly small couch that sat against the wall of the main room. He laid down first upon it,
and I stared at him confusedly as he patted a tiny space next to him.
“This isn’t going to work,” I remarked soberly, though he dismissed the nay saying, motioning me
over.
“If it worked when we were in elementary school, it should work now.”
I ignored the obvious errors in his judgment as I squeezed myself into the space between him and the
back of the couch, three quarters of my body basically atop his in an effort to fit the both of us. I
blushed at the snugness of the position and the proximity of our bodies, though I began to feel more
comfortable than sexually frustrated once he wrapped an arm safely around my body, placing my
head atop his chest.
“Oyasumi, Kaho.”
Within a minute or so he was asleep—so typical of Hayato—and I lied awake in thought, my arms bent
and cuddled about his torso.
Why is it always like this?
My fingers absentmindedly gripped the fabric of shirt tighter, my head burying itself in the contours of
his pectorals.
Why can’t he just push me away?
I breathed in the scent of clean linen from his dress shirt, exhaling a sigh of satisfaction.
Why can’t I  push him away?
My head left the comfort of his chest for a moment, looking up at his sleeping face with regret
burrowed deeply within my eyes.
It can’t be like this. It  can’t.
I settled my left cheek back onto his shirt pocket, and in that same way I fell asleep just a few
minutes later.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “Nothing much.”
2 “Shit!”
3 “Good night.”
Title of chapter (translated): Realization
Author’s Note: OK, so I had another few hectic weeks at school—so sorry for the delay again! This was
one of my favorite chapters to write so far, mostly because I love these characters; I can assure you,
however, that Shimizu is DEFINITELY coming back, with a vengeance, might I add, in the next
chapter! No more fake-outs from me! I promise you: he is coming back! Haha. Much love!
CHAPTER 10 PREVIEW:
After all the twists and turns that winter vacation has brought for both Hayato and Kaho, how can
Kaho possibly let go of her love for her best friend? And once Shimizu confronts Kaho about their
“near-kiss,” how will their relationship continue to evolve?
 
 
 
Chapter 10: Taiko
 
 
 
It felt strange coming back to school the day after New Year’s—I was so relaxed, and yet utterly
confused by my own actions since winter break had started and ended. There seemed to be an order
to my life, absurd as it was; there existed a consistent cycle of getting angry at and then reuniting
with Hayato, who, I have to add, was somewhat . . . different  after my little birthday party.
I couldn’t quite place how or why the change had occurred, but I had certainly picked up on it when
he picked me up before school started, his demeanor a bit more protective yet also more awkward
than usual. It made me wonder: had my nonsensical behavior during the holidays finally caught up to
me (in a bad way)? I didn’t doubt the possibility, but I could hardly stand the tiny changes that were
wiggling their way into my already screwed-up daily routine.
Speaking of routine—
My eyes wandered over to the window as Hayato and I once again waited for homeroom to start,
though he stared in obvious anticipation as I looked on with a faint boredom, my scrambled thoughts
easily making me forget the danger that accompanied staring out that second-floor window.
“Ah! Shimizu-kun!!!”
A girl from 1-D rushed past me towards the window, leaning over to get a good look at the school’s
idol before running downstairs to see him close-up, giggling all the way.
Her scream, however, had been enough to attract his attention upwards—more specifically,
towards me.
I met hiseyes instantaneously, staring back at his looming spectre with a mixture of dread and anxiety
swirling in my gaze. He looked back with fury belying his surface expression, his treacherous brown
irises staring at me accusingly. I swallowed despite my desire for a visage of calm, unused to seeing
him in such a foul and ill-willed temper as that one.
Yet before I could even collect myself enough to try and stare him back down, Shimizu’s gaze snapped
directly from me toHayato, and his eyes became even more tightly focused once they had captured
their target. I glanced between the two as Hayato turned a frightful shade of red, so unprepared was
he to be stared at so powerfully by the object of his desires. I even blushed at the strength of the
connection made, though I wanted to slap myself afterwards for even thinking of reacting in such a
way.
In a moment, however, Shimizu directed his gaze elsewhere, and he was gone to (assumedly) room
2-A for the morning’s freshmen student council meeting. I sighed a small breath of relief when he
finally left, though I couldn’t say the same of Hayato, who—still crimson—stood stock-still by the
window, his eyes wide and alert.
---
I couldn’t help but rouge every so often during the rest of that day along as I remembered the events
of the morning along with those from before winter break; how was it that Shimizu had been the root
of all evil lately? I laid my forehead against the palm of my left hand, sighing for the thousandth time
as I felt the heat of my body rise upwards with every stray thought.
Hayato was no better off than I after being stared at by his longtime crush; he was out-of-sorts,
forgetful, even fairly ditzy in his state of euphoria. I felt my eye twitch in irritation at his subtly
lovelorn expressions, and I must have appeared strange to everyone around me who couldn’t pick up
on Hayato’s sudden self-awareness. I flicked my pen every so often to keep my eye from twitching,
staring at my desk in an effort to stop myself from saying anything rash to him or anyone else.
“Watanabe!”
Ah, fucking Morioka.
My eyes immediately snapped up to meet those of my teacher, wondering if he would send me to that
room of hellfire again after school.
He only looked at me slightly disapprovingly, holding an open textbook in his arms as he conducted
our mathematics class in his usual, bland manner.
“Try not to zone out, ne?” He remarked, moving down the aisle past me a moment later. I ignored the
stares of my classmates, flipping to the page in the book where Mr. Morioka was lecturing from. As
much as I despised being in school that day, I’d be damned if I had to go to 2-A again for any  reason,
much less for acting out in class.
It was only a second later, however, that a note got pushed my way from Hayato, who sat silent two
seats in front of me. I opened it in much less festive a manner as I had before, and in doing so
managed to conceal it from Mr. Morioka’s watchful eyes.
Kaho—
I need to talk to you after class, during lunch. I’ll meet you in the nurse’s room, ne?
Hayato
I furrowed my brow in confusion at the meeting place designated in his note—wouldn’t it be a bit
conspicuous if we were both in the nurse’s at once?
What are you planning, Hayato?
I saw Hayato’s hand go up just as I finished the note, and Morioka spotted him quickly, calling on him
with a raised brow.
“Hai, Wakamoto-san?”
“Gomen, ah, I’m not feeling very well . . . may I please go to the nurse’s office?” His suddenly-
blanched face convinced Mr. Morioka quickly enough of his bad condition, and he nodded faintly,
gesturing for Hayato to leave. He did so quickly, though he looked the worse for it as he went through
the door slightly hunched over—a complete reversal of appearance from earlier.
I stared after him worriedly, anxious as to what he had to tell me and why he had left in such a hurry.
All of the girls in 1-D whispered and furrowed their brows concernedly as well, looking at the closed
door with clasped hands and moving lips. I glanced at the clock, seeing that it was only five minutes
before lunchtime; I would have to take my leave shortly as well, though I had to make up another
reason for it.
“Ne, what happened to Wakamoto-kun? He looked so sick!” One girl squeaked to another, and within
seconds a full discussion broke out amongst my classmates as to what had happened. I turned away,
not wanting to involve myself until the time was right.
Mr. Morioka whistled loudly to draw everyone’s attention back to himself, glaring sternly at the
chirruping students.
“That’s quite enough!” He exclaimed, coughing to clear his throat. “Now, before lunch starts, I’d like to
get through at least two more examples, onegai.”
The class reluctantly reassembled itself for the two minutes that remained, and I waited, staring at
the clock all the while.
---
“What do you want, Watanabe?”
He asked the question before I could even get a word in, and I held back a glare, sucking in my pride.
“Just permission to go to the bathroom, Morioka-sensei.” I responded as sweetly and gently as I
could, fuming against the man in my head. He only nodded without looking up from his newspaper,
waving me off.
“Do what you like.”
My fists clenched in anger, but I was glad to leave the classroom and all the rumors that had started
to fly around in the minutes since lunch had started about Hayato and I, most of which were
completely ridiculous and false. It was hard not to scream in frustration when I was one of the main
points of fickle conversation, though I managed to just wear a neutral expression through it all and
hope that Hayato wasn’t seriously ill.
I walked with an extra jolt in my step in the direction of the bathroom, knowing that the girls in my
homeroom (and others) were keeping a close eye on me to make sure that I was really going to the
bathroom and not, as they suspected, to the nurse’s. I maneuvered my way carefully through the
hallways, purposely taking side ways and awkward routes until I had made it to the first floor,
avoiding certain rooms and snaking my way towards where Hayato was waiting for me. By the time I
had reached the place, I was sure that a good amount of time had passed; in my efforts to dodge the
bullet, I guessed that I had only dug a deeper hole for myself.
I sighed at the notion but continued on, greeting the middle-aged, kindly nurse at her desk.
“Konbanwa . . . ano, is Haya—Wakamoto Hayato-san here?” I asked, remembering at the last second
to keep things formal. She nodded politely, guiding me to where Hayato laid down on a spare bed by
the window, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the few rays of winter sun while they lasted.
“Wakamoto-san? Your friend is here to see you,” she awakened him softly, and he opened his eyes
slowly, relaxing when he saw it was me. He smiled weakly at the nurse in thanks, sitting up.
“Arigatou,” he thanked her, and she left us shortly after with a small bow, us bowing our heads in
return for her service. He patted a spot beside him on the bed once the curtains had closed in on us,
and I sat down, placing my hands atop his.
“Hayato, daijoubu? You looked so sick when you left,” I asked, my grip tightening on his fingers. I felt
his hand tense under my hold, then leave it altogether a second later, his face tightening in
consternation. I was slightly hurt by his rejection of my touch, though I waited to hear what he had
wanted to say to me all that time.
“Daijoubu.”
He didn’t meet my eyes when he replied, which troubled me right off the bat. His voice was quiet,
almost imperceptibly so; I retreated a bit from him, though unconsciously. What could I say to him
then? I thought about the note that he had written me—what had he wanted to say to me, anyway?
My internal queries were answered after a short time, his eyes finally returning my worry-filled stare
with a look of graveness that I hadn’t seen from him in a long while.
“You know, Kaho—we’ve never talked about what happened before winter break started.”
I was frozen in place by his statement, not having expected him to say it (not then, at least). I
stopped myself from swallowing, acting dumb for the moment. I furrowed my brow as if genuinely
confused, hoping that my façade would work.
“What—what do you mean? What happened?”
I saw, with some disdain, as he rolled his eyes at my faux-ignorance, his severe gaze drawing me in
sharply.
“I know you better than anyone, Kaho; don’t think you can pull that bullshit with me,” he castigated,
and my expression dropped immediately, my stare directing itself away from his interrogative
countenance. I refused to speak after that, subconsciously waiting for him to make the next move. He
did after a moment, staring holes into the side of my face.
“We can’t keep pretending like nothing happened, Kaho,” he said in a softer, quieter tone, though I
still wouldn’t look at him, difficult as it was for me. He watched me ardently, his entire figure
discomfiting me.
“I saw the way he stared at you this morning. It—”
He paused, collecting himself before he continued.
“When I couple that with what happened before, it just seems . . .” He trailed off, and I swallowed
despite wanting not to, shaking from my fear of what he would say next. My shoulders hunched
inwards; I felt cramped, suffocated by the space (or lack thereof) in the room.
He didn’t notice my developing discomfort at my words, pressing further. “What’s going on, Kaho?
What—what is there between . . .”
When he didn’t finish that time, I couldn’t help but look at him, and I saw, much to my surprise, his
face reddening in embarrassment—or was it something else? Knowing what I did about him, I guessed
that he suspected the worst about Shimizu and me, and I had to put an end to it then. If there was
one thing in the world that I hated seeing the most, it was Hayato unhappy in any way.
“There’s nothing,” I responded suddenly, and a little loudly, too. I blushed afterwards, feeling
ridiculous for not being more circumspect. I looked away embarrassedly, my cheeks still red. “There’s
nothing, Hayato.”
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye to see his reaction, and I felt my stomach drop when that
clear display of understanding and acceptance passed over his vision.
It seemed that I had successfully deceived him once again.
---
I left the nurse’s office feeling more depressed than I had for at least three weeks; how could things
go wrong so quickly after everything had seemed to calm down? There was sincere desperation in me
as I took the long way back to the classroom, knowing the cold stares that would greet me upon
arriving there. It must have been obvious to everyone in the school  by then (since rumors spread
fast) that I hadn’t gone to the bathroom at all. I wondered if Morioka would punish me for not going
where I was supposed to, but then again, what did he care? He wasn’t exactly a hormonal, jealous,
harping teenage girl, and with any luck I wouldn’t be forced to clean that damn homeroom again.
As I made my way to the staircase at the end of the second floor’s hallway, I paused on my way by
that infamous room—2-A—and felt nothing but the deepest of rage towards its occupant(s). Was he in
there then? Could he hear my footsteps outside the room?
I rouged angrily at the thought of him, quickening my pace until I reached the foot of the stairs,
glancing briefly at the open doors to the hallway behind me. How many times had I met him  there,
had I argued with him in that place? I gripped the stairs’ railing tightly, hating myself for remembering
and pondering over the same bullshit over and over  again.
“Watanabe.”
I didn’t flinch, nor jump at the sound of his voice; rather, I simply stood staring at the stairs, my back
to him. There was real ire evident in the way he had spoken my name, and though I felt confused by
it, I also knew exactly the cause of his resentment.
“Look at me.”
I felt my muscles go taut at the command, but I obeyed it nonetheless, turning slightly to face him
expressionlessly. My hair brushed lightly against my cheek as he closed the doors to the hallway
behind him, the last gasp of air in that small area hitting my figure silently. He stared back at me
stonily.
“Can you answer me honestly?”
My jaw shuddered, though I eyed him calmly.
“That depends on what the question is.”
He took a step closer, nearly glowering.
“Then my question is simple,” he replied, coming nearer to me with every syllable. I didn’t back away,
but it was difficult to keep my composure with him so close. His body, just half a meter away from
mine, was incensed already.
“How do you think it feels, being left out to dry?”
I was taken aback by the query, confusion trumping poise. I felt irritated by the nature of it, and
voiced that aggravation promptly.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He closed the distance in a second, again enveloping and invading my personal space with his
muscular, imposing arms.
“Well, let me see . . . usually, that phrase would signify when a person’s been left to the
wayside, disposed of, if you will, once something better has come along.”
There was pure vitriol in his voice, and I realized all too quickly what he had meant all along. I
reddened, refusing to look into those brooding brown eyes for longer than a second.
“You’re acting as though something happened that would have led you to being ‘left out to dry,’ as
you so eloquently put it.” I replied harshly, gritting my teeth. “Don’t make it out to be more than it
was.”
For some reason, I wanted to bite my tongue after I had said it—I knew that I had hurt him by
denying such an obvious fact, but I didn’t want him to get any closer to me than he was already.
Unfortunately, I had underestimated him in that case, for a moment later he squeezed the railing so
hard that it shook beneath my hands. Fear crept its way into my heart, small as it was, but it was
significant enough to make me focus on him and him only.
He scowled, pressing me for details. “Then what was  it, Watanabe? A momentary lapse of judgment?
Give me a fuckin’ break,” he spat, his face drawing nearer to mine as his temper rose to a boiling
point.
I only glared back, his antagonizing finally getting to me. “Sou ka. That’s exactly what it was.” I
roughly turned my back to him again, fully preparing myself to walk back up the stairs, out the doors,
and go back to my homeroom.
Of course, things didn’t actually happen the way I wanted them to—they never did, really.
He caught my arm in an instant, stopping me before I could even take one step up in retreat. His eyes
were so determined, so intriguing in that moment . . . I couldn’t have looked away even if I had
wanted to.
“And what if it was more than that? What then?”
I blushed at the suggestion, swallowing nervously. How could I . . . what could I say to that?
His hand slid down from my forearm to my fingers, his touch becoming softer, even gentler in the
pause between his question and my (eventual) response. I shuddered at the sensation of his skin
drifting over mine, and felt confused by the near-caress that accompanied his hand joining mine.
It’s the same as last time.
I felt my body heat rise exponentially as the memories of our previous encounter filled my head, and I
quickly jerked my hand free from his, blushing horribly from the recycled air and my own mixed
emotions.
“I . . . I can’t do this, I can’t do this . . .”
I mumbled to myself as I walked up the stairs in something of a panic, again running away from our
confrontation. I was close to tears, I realized, my frustrations about the situation penetrating even my
deepest psyche.
Why do I—
“—keep running away?”
I halted halfway up the stairs as his voice finished my own thoughts, staring at him in bewilderment
as I tried to sort out the iniquities of my conscious mind.
He stared back with a combination of bitterness and sincere interest, thus befuddling me further.
“Is it because of that guy?”
All confusion ended with that inquiry, and my stare grew colder again.
“That is none of your concern,” I countered bitingly, glowering easily. He seemed unaffected by my
worsened mood and temper, climbing up the stairs to where I stood and continuing his cross-
examination.
“That’s what you said last time, too,” he commented nonchalantly, looking up at me from where he
stood a few steps down. With an unyielding spirit, he persisted. “But I know for a fact that
he’s special to you—so special that you’d run down a busy street in the pouring rain to get him back.”
I flushed at the mention of that incident, turning on my heel to stare at him in weak indictment.
“How do you—”
“You ignored me once you ran out of 2-A, but I kept calling out to you,” he cut me off, looking
somewhat hurt as he recalled the event from his perspective. “I couldn’t help but follow you for a little
bit, so I ended up seeing everything that happened.”
There was something a bit smug about him when he finished his piece, but I didn’t care to notice it;
instead, I reached back in my own memories for the sound of his voice on that day, and, amazingly, I
had a tiny speck  of a recollection that involved him calling out my name once I had run out on him.
It wasn’t the memory, however, that caused me to look at him questioningly after he spoke—I was
more interested in the context in which he had spoken, and I needed it clarified for my own sanity.
“You . . . ‘couldn’t help’ following me?”
It was his turn to blush upon hearing that question, and he couldn’t look me in the eye for a minute or
so, obviously not expecting me to ask something like that. It was a strange reaction, surely, but there
was something very telling about it, I thought.
He managed to gather his wits about him and redirect his attentions back to me again, though his
stare was even more intense than before. I jumped a little at the shift in the atmosphere yet again,
shrinking back in apprehension. He ignored my visible uneasiness, finally replying.
“Sou desu. I couldn’t help it.”
Unwittingly, my hand came to cover my right cheek, my skin burning red at his admission. He came
up to stand with me on that middle stair, his hot breath grazing my overheated and sensitive ears as I
stood there, unmoving save for my darting eyeballs. I felt so incredibly uncomfortable in that crevice
of a space, his figure mere millimeters from mine as my body flared from our closeness. How could I
escape then?
Desperately, my brain concocted a route out of that fiery torment, and my hand fell from my face, the
hand that he still held in his slipping from his grip.
“You—you were right, Shimizu,” I told him suddenly, facing him with a weak smile. He stared back at
me, puzzled, just as he did when I left him the first time. I swallowed the lump in my throat, ignoring
the throbbing of my beating heart. “He is  special to me—and I can’t . . .”
I glanced at the bottom of the staircase before looking back at him, trying to summon courage in an
act of great cowardice. Rue permeated my thoughts, my actions, and my words.
“I can’t betray him.”
The bell to mark the end of lunch rang as I walked back up to the second floor, leaving Shimizu
behind me in the stairwell with that same, perplexed expression.
I bit my cheek to keep from crying.
--------------------------------------------
Title of chapter (translated): Confrontation
Author’s Note: Another looooong break, but I hope this chapter was worth it! As you readers will
notice, Kaho doesn’t even realize her own feelings at the moment . . . but I promise that she will
figure out things in due time, and they will only complicate matters more. Hah! I’m evil, I know.
Thanks for all the lovely reviews, though! They really make my day.
CHAPTER 10 PREVIEW:
After Shimizu’s surprising confession of sorts to Kaho, how will she take his feelings into
consideration? And, for that matter, can she continue to ignore her own growing attraction towards
the handsome school idol? And does Hayato really believe Kaho when she says there’s “nothing”
between her and Shimizu?
 
 
Chapter 11: Tomei
 
 
That night Hayato invited me over his house for dinner, and his ulterior motives, obvious as they were
to me, were not quite so transparent to his father, who glanced between the two of us every so often
at the table while we all ate.
As I evaded Hayato’s piercing gaze, I noticed his father’s subtly curious expression about the two of
us. Although I had been coming over to his abode for as long as I could remember, he had become
conspicuously suspicious as of late—I guessed that the transition to high school had affected even
Hayato’s father in the way he viewed mine and Hayato’s “relationship.”
Between his father’s questioning looks and Hayato’s invading stare, I felt increasingly uneasy in
Hayato’s home, wanting nothing more than to leave the food where it lay and depart immediately. My
mind was still filled with thoughts of him; how could I have an open conversation with Hayato when I
was in such a state?
Hayato’s father glanced at the clock on the wall and swore a little under his breath, excusing himself
afterwards as he stood.
“Sumimasen for my rudeness, but I’d better get to working on the case. You two can finish up without
me, ne?”
I nodded lightly in acknowledgment, smiling faultily as I felt Hayato’s stare strike me to my very core
from behind. I swallowed a little, my anxiety about being alone with him getting the better of me.
As his father was leaving, however, he suddenly turned around again, looking guiltily at Hayato.
“Gomen ne, but could you take care of the dishes tonight? I don’t think I have time again.”
Hayato only nodded, saying a “daijoubu” in reassurance before standing from his seat as well,
collecting the plates from the table and bringing them to the sink. Without another word spoken, he
took the washrag from the side of the counter, roughly scrubbing the dishes for lack of a machine to
do the work for him. Had I not been as dazed as I was at the time, I’m sure that I would have
admired the movements of his muscular arms and hands as they did their magic.
Instead, I found myself staring at the empty table in front of me, my face vacillating between being
incredibly flushed and incredibly pale. I had tried desperately to hold myself together since leaving
Shimizu, as he put it, “out to dry” again, yet all I had wanted to do since that moment was break
down and cry. In fact, the only thing that had stopped me from doing so was a call from Hayato right
after school had ended, though in retrospect, that call could (and would) only make things worse.
“Kaho? Doushitano?”
My head snapped up from where its previous, lifeless position had been, and I simply smiled, shaking
my head with no small effort.
“Nothing, really—daijoubu! I . . . I should help you out, ne?” I asked him pathetically, and he paused
in his washing, the water still running as he stared at me, clearly puzzled by my sudden need of active
participation in such a tedious chore.
He promptly turned the faucet off, setting the rag aside as he leaned on the counter, staring
quizzically at my entirely rouged countenance. In that manner of his, he seemed to have set aside his
own questions and pay attention to me; it was something I both loved and hated about the way that
he treated me, but his kindness had truly become a problem of some consequence by then.
When he placed a strong, masculine hand on my shoulder, I shuddered, even flinching at his touch. I
noticed that it was the same reaction that I had had to Shimizu earlier—what in the hell was wrong
with me?
“Kaho, you’re all red—c’mon, I’ll take you to my room to lie down, ne?”
I shook my head in disagreement, but he only grasped my right arm with his powerful grip, leading
me forcefully to his bedroom and sitting me down on his outspread futon. Again, it would have been a
blush-worthy situation, but . . . not then. Not with all that had happened that day.
He left the room for a moment after seeing that I was seated, and I was relieved to see him leave,
though you wouldn’t have been able to tell from my face, red as ever. I hid my burning cheeks in my
hands, replaying the scene on the staircase over and over again in my head, waiting for someone to
press the “stop” button on my mind.
Hayato came back with water from the tap less than a minute after he had left, though my face was
still buried once he had returned. I didn’t notice when he set the glass down beside me, nor when the
futon depressed beneath me, his weight digging into its mattress. I couldn’t think about him or what
he might have been thinking about me—it was selfish of me, but for once, he was far from my heart
and mind.
“Talk to me.”
I took a breath in sharply when he said that, his words, though less demanding than those of a certain
someone, managing to affect me in much the same way. As much as I wanted to fight against his
willfulness, his beauty, and his generosity, I simply couldn’t.
“About what?” My reply was more breathy and odd than I had planned it to be, and so I blushed
again, hiding my face from his view—a difficult task, I can assure you.
He watched me closely, refraining from his usual habit of touching me gently in assurance while he
spoke further, thus heightening my distress.
“Anything.”
In that instant, Shimizu and all the memories that were associated with him left my consciousness; I
simply turned and stared at Hayato in silence, marveling at his answer.
Has he always been this wonderful?
I was touched by his reply, but—what was missing? For there was some part of me that hurt when he
had spoken, hurt so deeply that I broke down in front of him within seconds, my eyes belatedly
flooding with tears.
“Kaho! Daijoubu?!”
Hayato’s concerned exclamation was muffled by the sound of my own cries and sobs, and I could
hardly breathe for fear that I would choke on the consequences of my repressed emotions. He held
me in his arms, and his father even came into the room, bewildered by the noises I had made—but
nothing relieved me. I was caught up in the one thought that ran through my mind: the thought that
had begun and ended with Hayato’s casual reply to my equally informal question.
He’ll never be anything more than a friend.
I started to cry all over again when my brain voiced what my conscience already knew, and by that
time I heard the worried shouting match between Hayato and his father, both of them trying to figure
out what was wrong with me as I sat there in his embrace, feeling my world collapse around me for
the millionth time over. Why was I so affected that time as opposed to all my previous “epiphanies”
about him?
But I knew the answer to that without wracking my brain too much; it wasn’t a difficult explanation,
anyway. In fact, I had known it for a while, but . . . it had taken his insignificant little reply to confirm
what had been in my heart for so long.
I  can tell him anything—just not the one thing I want to tell him the most.
---
Hayato’s father stopped short of calling the hospital that night, thinking that I was having a panic
attack of sorts, and I dissuaded him from doing so once I had managed to pull what little there was
left of me back together. Hayato tried to cajole me into staying the night at his place for fear that I
would collapse on the way back to my house, but I refused the offer, assuring him (albeit weakly
and very unconvincingly) that I would be fine going back on my own. As shaken as I was by the
experience of an emotional breakdown, it wouldn’t be the end of me.
Nevertheless, it was a long and lonely walk home, and the dead quiet of the streets that I walked
along did little to quell the solitude that dwelled within me. Often I felt tears begin to well up again at
the corners of my eyes, though I would quickly rub them away, sniffling constantly. I at least had to
hold myself together until I reached my house, I thought.
Yet once I had gotten there, I found that I didn’t want to cry at all; rather, I just laid down on my bed
without letting my mother know that I had come home late, staring at the ceiling with little care for
what she, or anyone, for that matter, thought of me then. I was tired of expecting things that would
never happen, of hoping for things that would never come to me—I couldn’t keep acting like an insane
person, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
But maybe I am insane, I thought cynically, if I can keep doing this to myself. Maybe it’s just my
permanent state of mind.
Yeah, right. As much of a sad sack of a human being I could be sometimes, I refused to acknowledge
that I was so weak that my emotions were the only thing controlling my every move. There
just had  to be more to life than meaningless repetition—that was what I kept telling myself, anyway.
What did I really know about living? I had liked the same guy for over eight years, yet had gotten no
response from him in any way whatsoever  to my clearly one-sided feelings. If that wasn’t unhealthy, I
really didn’t know what was.
I heard a knock on my bedroom door a few minutes later, and I wasn’t the least bit surprised to see
my mother standing behind it, her face set somewhere between a frown and a neutral expression. I
blinked at her passively, speaking only so that things wouldn’t get too  awkward.
“Hai, okaasan?”
She seemed to snap awake from whatever mood she had been in, staring at me first self-righteously,
then guiltily, allowing herself into my room and sitting in the chair by my desk with a tired sigh. I
watched the events unfold in silence, curious about her entrance insofar as it was out of the ordinary
and, well . . . strange,  really.
“I just . . .” She began, sighing again before she continued, “I just wanted to apologize for what
happened on your birthday.”
My throat tightened at her statement, and I stood still by my door, waiting for her to finish. It had
been humiliating enough the first time around—was she trying to make me feel like more of a fool
than I already did at that time?
“Gomen nasai, Kahoko. I never meant to hurt you—you know that.”
I had, more or less, tuned out her apology once she had called me “Kahoko”; what repulsed me so
much about that name, I can’t say, but it made everything that she said null in my mind. I looked to
the side, refusing to meet her imploring gaze.
“Hai. Wakarimashita.” (1)
She nodded as if satisfied by my response, then briefly touched my shoulder before walking past me
and back towards her room, my skin feeling colder in her absence.
---
Hayato kept a close eye on me the next day at school, but I avoided all contact with him, both
physical and  mental. It was childish of me, but I couldn’t even look at him without remembering what
he had said, and how he had said it—had it really been so easy for him to speak those words?
I felt as sick as Hayato had the day before by lunchtime, excusing myself from class and (again)
causing a stir, as it had been obvious that I was ignoring much of Hayato’s attempts at conversation. I
could hear the seething and baiting of the girls from my homeroom and others as I walked to the
nurse’s room, though much of what they said only faded into little more than background noise.
My head spun a thousand miles an hour, and I supposed that I hadn’t recovered from the shock of my
sudden rush of senselessness the day before. There were still traces of my fragility left, the shattered
pieces of my temporary insanity sticking out of the crevices of my body. I was thankful for the cold,
flat surface of the nurse’s bed once I was able to lay myself down on it, and even more so when the
beginnings of a deep, dreamless sleep were starting to sink their roots into my psyche.
“Sumimasen.”
A voice.
“Ah, konbanwa! Just sign in here, like always.”
Whose voice is that?
“Arigatou, Hirose-sa—”
Why did it pause?
My eyes flew open instantly, and before I knew what I was doing, my entire torso shot up from my
bed to meet him just as he pulled the curtains aside, staring at me in an uncommon way. I swallowed
the blush that rose in my throat upon seeing him, unwilling in every sense to let him know the effect
that his stare had on me.
“Watanabe?”
He spoke my name as if confused by my presence there, and I reddened at the sound of his voice,
unable to hold my embarrassment in. I glanced away, figuring in the meantime that he had probably
spotted my name on the sign-in sheet by the front desk.
But then . . . what’s  he  doing here?
As curious as I was to know the answer to that question, I knew that I would get nary an answer in
the current predicament, the two of us (or perhaps just me) being far too taken aback by seeing each
other again to say anything of consequence.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t let the silence abate; shortly after he acknowledged my being there, I did the
same.
“Shimizu.”
After another, longer pause, he stepped into my space with little reserve, making sure the curtains
were closed securely behind him before he spoke again—though this time in a much lower, hushed
tone than before.
“Why—what happened to you?” He rephrased his query, I’m sure, once he saw the immense puffiness
of my eyes and the paleness of my skin (although, to be fair, my skin was always fair in complexion).
I still couldn’t return his gaze, not noticing the poorly-concealed concern within it. “Betsu ni.”
He was immediately irritated by that nondescript reply, but really—had he expected anything more
from me? Sometimes I even got annoyed with myself for being so vague with him, but I couldn’t help
that. He didn’t need to know anything more than was necessary.
“It sure as hell doesn’t look like it’s just ‘betsu ni,’” he retorted quickly, standing by the edge of the
bed with eyes that looked upon me with more worry than revulsion. That in itself was weirdly
comforting, if nothing else.
“Well, then maybe it’s not,” I told him sharply, glaring lightly before relenting in my callous mood, my
vision trailing off. I was already giving away too much to that guy, and there was little effort on my
part to maintain my pride. By that point, I was just getting tired of lying to him about everything.
Once I had said my piece, he probed me further, seeking elaboration on my point. “So—what is it?
Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about a certain someone.”
I flinched at his correct (and sarcastic) guess at what my problem consisted of, glowering at his impish
expression.
“Just . . . don’t go there, ne? I’m not ready for a fight today,” I told him wearily, my glower fading just
as quickly as it had arisen. I broke eye contact again, hoping that maybe  he would drop the subject.
Of course, that was too much to ask for with him—he took a seat by the foot of the bed, disregarding
my annoyed expression as he made himself comfortable.
“And that’s exactly  what I find strange,” he countered, staring at me pointedly. “You’re always ready
for a fight, Watanabe—especially when it’s with me,” he added cheekily on the end, and had we been
on better terms I’m sure that he would have winked at me as well. I scoffed at the claim, nearly
sneering at him.
“Oh, and you would know this how? Simply from aggravating me for a few months or so? Don’t kid
yourself,” I snapped, my teeth clenching. “You don’t know anything about me.”
He seemed to back off after I had made my quiet, viperous remark, though he was never really at a
loss for words.
“You make it hard for anybody  to get to know you,” he said in a hushed tone, his stare still fixed on
me. “It doesn’t take very long to figure out that about you, at least.”
Unable to disprove his words, I simply turned away, red with an ire that I could not rationalize.
Perhaps he was right: maybe I was a pretty simple person to figure out, and only I was making things
more complicated than they needed to be. My cheeks cooled as our mutual silence began to overtake
my anger, the validity of his speech hitting me hard.
Seeing my tight-lipped, tongue-tied expression, Shimizu crept closer, though it was such a small
motion that I didn’t bother fretting over it like I usually would. His stare was as incisive as ever,
cutting through my broken resistance.
I glanced back at him a moment later, and upon observing that calm, permanent gaze of his, I sighed,
meeting his eyes with some reluctance. “Nani, Shimizu?”
He was thrown off a bit, perhaps, by the fact that I had gotten in a word or two before he had, but he
recovered and even smirked a little, raising an eyebrow for effect.
“You’re not running away from me.”
It was said in a knowing way, and I resented his obnoxious persona that he put on around me,
frowning.
“Why should I? It’s not as though I feel threatened by you.”
I understood the folly of my own words moments after I had said them, blushing despite my best
interests. I had finally replied to that question that he had asked me months before; he must have
caught onto that right away. I looked away, eager to avoid seeing his expression upon hearing my
long-awaited answer.
As I thought he would, Shimizu keenly latched onto this small reply, marveling at it in his way.
“Is that how you would’ve responded a couple of months ago?” he asked me with a bit of a wide-eyed
gaze, my discomfort increasing ever so steadily in the presence of his person. He smiled contentedly
for a moment while I squirmed, entirely incapable of saying anything biting in return that might quell
his conceit. How could he be so self-involved?! It was aggravating in the purest sense of the word.
On the other hand, however, I knew that he was completely right; he had pinpointed the reversal in
my judgment easily, and in doing so revealed me to be little more than an indecisive dolt. I would
have seethed at such a waffling move on my part in the past, but at that time . . .? All that I heard in
my mind were the endless questions that circulated, baffling and angering me in their number.
What had changed my opinion of him in so little time? Why was I so lenient in our conversations (if
you could even call them that) in the present as opposed to just a few months before? Had he really
gained that much of an upper hand over me? I guessed that my ordeal with Hayato had weakened my
will to the point that I couldn’t even counter Shimizu’s aggressive (albeit truthful) remarks with my
usual coldness.
He could tell how alternately distressed and enraged I was by my admission, and his smug expression
fell, it being replaced by a genuinely curious, if not somewhat calculating, one.
“Watanabe? You still there?”
My eyes flashed spitefully at the query, knowing its innocent intent but resenting the humor that
rested at the heart of all of his remarks.
“Hai, I’m still here. Do you intend to keep dragging this pointless crap out, or should I end this bullshit
now?” I snapped, eyeing him dangerously. I had had enough of feeling confused by my own change of
heart and then his fucking questions—if acting bitter was my only way out of there, then I would be as
acrid as I possibly could.
As per usual, though, he wasn’t exactly fazed by my lack of socializing skills; in fact, he was made all
the more zealous by their absence, stimulated by my petulant nature.
“You can end it whenever you want, Watanabe,” he said quietly, leaning a little closer. A bit of a
teasing smile played out on his lips, though I only threw off the blankets, scowling. I was fervent in
my desire to leave him there with his incorrigibly haughty self, feeling no guilt in doing so that time.
Who did he think he was, speaking to me so intimately?! Granted, we had known each other quite a
while by then, but that was no excuse! I despised his informality, but for some reason I was especially
affected by that all-knowing demeanor of his then.
I felt a tug on the back of my shirt when I finally stood, and knew that his hand was gripping the
fabric of it tightly. My energy was already low from yesterday’s debacle; did he really expect me to put
up a fight then? I felt much of my toughness ease in spite of the tense atmosphere, my hands lax
from their formerly fisted look.
“Do you have to leave?”
A flutter rippled through my stomach at the unexpected question, yet I still looked ahead, quelling my
sudden need to turn and face him. I stayed my unreasonable, primitive desires, forcing myself to
tense in the silence that ensued.
“Hai, Shimizu. I really do.”
“Doushite?”
That time I had to look at him, so surprised was I by that word. “Doushite”. . .? What was that even
supposed to mean in the context of that moment? I searched for an answer that was adequate,
diplomatic even, but not quite close to the truth. Once I found it, I replied.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
My voice wavered in that quiet tone, and I wondered if he had even heard me. His hand released my
shirt a moment later, though I still never glanced to see his reaction, nor waited to hear another word
leave his lips. I only left the nurse’s office in a hurry, forgetting to sign out.
---
“Kaho! Are you feeling any better?”
I actually responded to Hayato when I came back to homeroom, nodding weakly as I sat back down at
my desk. I had managed to ignore all the talk that circled me as I walked through the halls and back
into class, but still felt no better at having done so.
How could you give him such a direct answer?
My rational mind had been furious at my honest heart about what had occurred in the nurse’s office,
thinking that I had encouraged Shimizu too much with my uncertain words. I couldn’t blame it for
being angry; in a way, so was my entire being, though a part of my purely emotional self was relieved
at not having to lie to him completely.
Nevertheless, every other working part of me was screaming at the top of its nonexistent lungs, re-
running the scene of my openness with my supposed arch-rival over and over again as punishment for
having given in to my feelings for once. I reddened regardless of my pitiful state,
remembering everything  about what had happened: all that was said (and unsaid), all gestures, all
movements, and all of the silences.
Yet in that recollection of what had happened there laid nuggets of realizations that hadn’t come to me
during the moment of occurrence—in my vivid memories was the promise of something so new and
alarming that I could not ignore it, much as I wanted to.
I remembered his inquisitive eyes when he first discovered me in the nurse’s office; I remembered his
body inching closer towards mine on the bed; I remembered his softened, almost wounded tone when
he had held the tail of my shirt as a child would.
Suddenly, all of that made so much sense—the connecting thread had been lost on me for all that
time, but in that moment, the veil was lifted.
He likes me.
--------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “I understand.”
Title of chapter (translated): Clear
Author’s Note: So I promise that after I come back from my 10-day trip to Tokyo next week I will
DEFINITELY expand upon this “little” plot development for all my readers...Hah, I’ve been too cruel
with the suspense about this, I know. I appreciate all the support I’ve been receiving in the form of
reviews and faves and alerts recently though, so thanks to everyone who gives me the motivation to
continue writing this fic! It has definitely been a joy to write.
CHAPTER 10 PREVIEW:
After Kaho’s realization about what Shimizu feels towards her (without him saying anything), will she
view him in a new light? Could she  feel anything towards him in return? And what happens when a
certain, neglected best friend steps into the fray?
 
 
 
Chapter 12: Roken
 
 
I was beginning to think that I had been overly presumptuous about Shimizu a few days after our
encounter at the nurse’s office.
We continued to “bump” into each other, if you could even call it that, throughout the week, both in
and out of school; usually our “chance meetings” took place either at the end of the school day,
around lunchtime, or on the train. And for me, it hadn’t gotten any easier to talk to him since my
realization, especially since I wasn’t even secure as to its accuracy.
He had acted relatively the same as before when we happened to meet: overtly smug, pompous, loud,
obnoxious, etc., only there was a slight shift in his demeanor from earlier days. He was not so
adamant any more about finding out my original dislike for him, nor was he particularly fixated on
calling me a liar or insulting me needlessly. He seemed content to simply tease me about my ill
temper towards him, and then, from time to time, to also try and slip in personal questions, none of
which I would give him the satisfaction of answering.
In a weird way, he was almost . . . clingy  around me.
Not that I looked too much into that—my previous assumption about him had gone absolutely
nowhere, much as it bothered me, and I wasn’t quite ready to start hypothesizing about his
ambiguous feelings towards me again. It had become distressing to have to see, much less talk to him
on a daily basis after guessing what I had about him, more so because I was unsure myself as to how
to approach such a delicate issue. Such things are hardly to be treated lightly, yet I wondered if I was
tending to the matter at all in its aftermath.
The truth was that his (possible) feelings for me were more of a dilemma than a blessing. In all my
sixteen years, not once had a boy confessed to me nor turned a caring eye my way besides Hayato,
and in that there laid an entire problem within itself that I was tired of reviving. How was
I supposed to react to the prospect of someone liking me? And especially when it wasn’t just
any someone—it was Shimizu Jun, the most popular, well-liked, athletic, charismatic, and sought after
male in the entire school (besides Hayato, of course)! Even the thought of such a thing happening
frightened me, to say the least, but when I was actually presented with the reality of it, I felt helpless.
I couldn’t very well go to Hayato for help; no, obviously not. And if not him, then who? He was
basically my only close friend, and other acquaintances came by rarely, if ever. I had had a few
friends in primary school, but . . . the beginning of middle school had been the end of a normal social
life as I knew it.
In a word, my situation was difficult.
So I forced myself to keep my wandering feelings inside, regardless of Hayato’s prodding and
Shimizu’s jabbing to do otherwise. My introverted side that had taken over my person for so many
years had started peeling away under Shimizu’s constant baiting, and I didn’t like that one bit. As hard
as it was for me to reign in my displeasure when Shimizu got me going, I did it, letting the days pass
by in their monotonous, quiet fashion. He had messed with my emotions too much in the nurse’s
office for me to function normally around him, and for that I refused to forgive him. Frankly, once I
had gotten over the initial shock of my presumption, I started to care less and less about what he felt.
I began to wonder, rather indignantly, if he and his “feelings” had the right to disrupt my daily life—
obviously, they didn’t, but that was what they were doing!
Even then, however, I was finding it even more irritating to reconcile with the fact that he wasn’t
exactly going out of his way to display his purported affection towards me. Instead, he was the same,
arrogant kid that I had met nearly four months ago, if somewhat less vindictive than before. That
contrasting behavior caused me to speculate as to his curious lapses in baka-ness that had occurred
throughout our time together, whether it was our near-kiss before winter break or his hand gripping
mine on the stairwell or our most recent reunion (which bears no reiteration). Each time he had been
on the verge of touching me in a more-than-friendly manner; each time he had spoken to me in a low,
guttural baritone that had the habit of causing that unfamiliar sensation in my lower body to surface.
I would blush upon remembering any of those occurrences, though I found that simply recalling them
in my mind was enough to reinforce my deduction that Shimizu did, indeed, like me. Simply trying to
say those few words in my head was a task in itself, so I tried to stay away from those memories,
fresh as they were to me with every resurrection. I was better off not comprehending whatever it was
that Shimizu felt towards me, even if it was nothing at all.
I couldn’t risk the consequences of trying to understand it, anyway.
---
His eyes played their teasing game with mine in the early hours of a mid-January morning, and I
glared back at them with my usual distaste, turning my head with a “humph” shortly after. It was still
too odd a feeling to have him return my stares, especially when he was enjoying them far too much
for my liking.
Nonetheless, I felt my cheeks redden when I turned away from him, my mind unwittingly turning to
the incident the day before when he had managed to bait me for a whole twenty minutes inside 2-A
after school. It had been infuriating but expected, I suppose.
When it came to Shimizu, nothing really surprised me anymore.
I stared at Hayato’s back in the aftermath of the morning’s “exchange,” alarmed by the observation
over the past few days that he hadn’t been staring at Shimizu like he always had before. I wondered if
perhaps it had something to do with the fact that his crush was now looking up towards our window
every day, though I knew that that was more of an established connection than a guess, really. I
mean, it’s not as though Hayato was so blind as to not  notice Shimizu staring at me, right? As thick-
headed as seemed sometimes about my fairly transparent feelings towards him, Hayato was rather
quick about most things.
He had known that something was strange since before winter break, but he had avoided (most)
routes of conversation with me that lead to discussing any of the unnatural events he had witnessed
between Shimizu and me. Even that one moment of apparent clarity that I had achieved (albeit
through lies) when he had pressed me for the truth didn’t seem to have erased his doubt. It made me
nervous to see Hayato in so introverted a way, his cheeriness and gusto reduced, I was sure, by his
justified suspicions.
“Ha-ya-to,” I pouted out his name from behind, and he turned to me immediately, plastering a good-
natured smile on his attractive features. For once, I was thankful that he was willing to fake happiness
for my sake.
“You’re feeling better, I take it?” he asked with a small smirk, and I nodded, a small smile unwittingly
crawling onto my lips.
“Gomen if I seemed like a downer for the past few days,” I sighed, apologetic in tone.
Hayato waved off the matter, looking at me sympathetically. “All that studying for Morioka’s exam
must have finally killed your senses, ne?”
I coughed out a small laugh at the remark on his behalf, unwilling to reveal the true reason for my
distracted nature over the past week or so. Then again, Hayato probably knew about that too.
“Sou desu. I guess I was really unpleasant, ne?” I asked with another small laugh, though that time it
was more genuine.
He grinned a bit, staring at me humouredly. “Well, that’snot really out of the ordinary, is it?”
I put on an expression of mock offense, looking scandalized by the comment. “Honestly, Hayato! Do
you have to say the truth in such a blunt way?”
We both laughed a little after that, though the frivolities ended once the bell for homeroom had rung
and I scuttled back to my rightful seat. If only for the morning, I hoped that I had lessened his
reservations about my recent behavior, and that he would feel more comfortable in my presence
again.
---
The phone rang a few hours after school ended that same day, the clock rounding on the eighth hour
of the evening when I answered the call.
“Watanabe residence, Watanabe Kahoko speaking,” I said mechanically, staring absentmindedly at the
absurd cleanliness of the desk in my room. A familiar voice quickly responded on the other line—one
that didn’t surprise me in the least.
“Kahoko? Ah, I’m glad you’re home. I need you to buy a couple bottles of my herbs from Morimoto’s
again—there’s money on the counter, so don’t spend your own money. Got it?”
I nodded absently, replying with a “Hai, okaasan” in a nearly bored tone. We exchanged informal
goodbyes a second later, and I hung up, irritated when I looked back at my bedside clock. It was
already eight o’clock . . . and the store was twenty minutes away . . . and because it was a weeknight,
it closed around nine.
I frowned at the inconvenience of it all, especially since I still had a shitload more studying to get done
before school started again the next day. Did my mother really  need those damned herbs? Sure, they
helped her relax with those special contents or whatnot, but Morimoto’s was a specialty store and kind
of out of the way, even more so on a school night. I guessed that I would be taking my bike there,
seeing as walking would take forty minutes plus, and I didn’t really have that kind of time, to be frank.
I sighed as I set down my pencil and let my hair down, knowing that I would need all the warmth I
could get. I changed out of my sweatpants and into a pair of jeans, slipping on a brown knitted
sweater to combat the cold of a winter night. Only then did I make my way towards the front door,
readying my bike and staring out into the clear, dry air of January.
By the time I left, it was already ten past eight.
---
I felt a frown work its way into my features as I scanned the herbal medicine aisle, incredibly annoyed
with being stuck with such a menial task. Usually my mother would stop at that store on the way
home from work; what had been different about that night? I felt somewhat bitter at having been
taken away from my studies, glancing at my watch every few minutes to make sure that I wasn’t
staying past closing time. I had already been at the damn place for nearly ten minutes without luck,
and I was too moody to ask for help in finding what I had come there for.
As my luck turned out, though, all of the herbs that my mother usually took where tucked away safely
at the very end of the aisle, on the display shelf.
Why the hell didn’t I bother to look there? Fucking hell . . .
I nearly grumbled with displeasure as I stuffed the various bottles in a hand basket, glowering when I
realized that it was only five minutes until nine. I had lost, give or take, an hour  getting to Morimoto’s
—one irreplaceable, essential hour that I could’ve spent more wisely, say, studying.
I sighed, making my way towards the lone working cash register in the store, simply wanting to get
my business over and done with so that I might at least get some kind of work done before the night
was gone. I closed my eyes briefly as I turned the corner of another display shelf, though when I
opened them—
I almost dropped my basket in shock, standing stock-still a few feet from the register with eyes as
wide as those of a deer in headlights.
“Shimizu.”
He looked about ready to jump at the sound of my voice inexplicably saying his name, turning around
slowly to face me from where he stood, prepping the register.
“Watanabe . . .” he returned, though in much more hesitant a tone than I had ever heard him use
before. He looked just as boggled as I was from the encounter, his fingers frozen in place above the
open cash slot.
I almost couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing—to see if I was hallucinating, I continued, speaking
though I hardly knew what the hell I was trying to say.
“You—you work  here?” I asked unbelievingly, and he swallowed audibly, that cool composure that I
had always known Shimizu to have seeming to disintegrate in an instant.
“H—Hai.”
Though his answer confirmed what I had initially assumed, I still found it all too strange to be true.
Sure, he was wearing a checkout boy’s apron and wore a nametag that clearly said “Shimizu Jun” on
it, but . . . how was this possible?!  I knew my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me anymore, but there
was still the unsettling feeling of deep confusion in my mind.
“Ano . . . doesn’t our school not allow students to have jobs?” I asked with some pause, raising an
eyebrow in question.
Suddenly, he reddened beyond belief, the final vestiges of whatever collected behavior he had tried to
maintain disappearing.
He’s embarrassed.
My eyes widened after a moment, a small smirk playing on my lips. “So—the class president has a job
outside of school?Howintriguing,”  I teased him for once, sadistically sated by his extreme discomfort
by my words. How often had I been placed in his position in the last few months? It felt good to finally
get some retribution, and especially in such a big way.
He rouged even more, if it was possible, glaring at me indignantly as I placed my items on the
checkout counter, feeling rather satisfied by my small victory as he quickly scanned in the items,
snatching the exact change I had left for the products without saying a thing. Had I finally managed to
leave him at a loss for words? I hoped so.
He quickly closed down the register once my duty was done, my smirk now indelibly pasted on my
countenance and widening with every silent second that passed between us.
How little I considered his temperamental tendencies in my mirth; I only realized later how great my
folly had been.
He grabbed my forearm forcefully, almost dragging me to the back of the small store, my small fits of
protest never fazing his drive to seclude the two of us. He let go of my promptly once we had reached
the organic foods section, and I massaged my arm tenderly, glowering at him.
“What the fuck was that about, you—”
He put his hand over my mouth before I could finish my tirade, and I heard the voice of an older man
shout from the other end of the store, his tone cheerful.
“Jun! Could you close up tonight? I’ve got to get home early, otherwise Michiko will kill me!”
Shimizu kept his hand over my mouth, staring at me viperously as he answered, shouting back
despite the fierce, hateful stare I was throwing his way.
“I’ll take care of it, Akira.”
The older man, by the sound of it, hadn’t left even after Shimizu’s reply; for a moment, a look of
exasperation crossed his features at the interruption.
“I’ll tell Michiko you said hi,” the man shouted merrily, and Shimizu rolled his eyes that time, though
there was a foreign smile that flitted across his lips.
“You do that. Mata ashita.” (1)
“Mata ashita, Jun!”
He finally took his hand off my mouth once he heard the door to the store close, and I took in a
breath, scowling so violently that I was sure even he flinched.
“Now,” I started again, my eyes narrowing, “would you mind telling me what the fuck you did that
for?” I signaled to my forearm to make my point, showing him the red marks that remained from his
powerful grip. He sighed a little, looking somewhat guiltily upon the proof of his strength.
“Gomen,” he said quietly, his entire demeanor changing as he stared at my arm, a free hand running
through his straight brown locks. “I acted too rashly, and . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
That phrase—“I didn’t mean to hurt you”—it seemed that I had heard too much of it over the past few
months, whether it came from myself, Hayato, or my mother. I was sick of it, and sick of forgiving
people just because they had said it. I didn’t let up my glare in light of him speaking it, crossing my
arms angrily.
“Then what did you mean to do, Shimizu? Surely, you didn’t just grab my arm and drag me back here
for the hell of it, did you?” I snapped, and his mood darkened immediately at the question, his entire
persona becoming more withdrawn as a result of it.
He answered after a time, his gaze meeting mine with frightening lucidity.
“You can’t tell anyone about—about this,” he gestured towards his working apron, blushing lightly
even as he did so. “I need this job, and—”
“And what?” I countered, cutting him off mid-sentence. “If you lose it, you’re fucked?” The clichéd
quality of the situation made me want to laugh, but he said something in response that quickly erased
any humor I might have extracted from it.
“Something like that.”
The quiet, almost whispery way in which he spoke gave me due pause, if only because I had rarely
heard him speak so seriously, and even then never in such a subdued manner. When he grew even
more aloof, I felt a little culpable for the unfavorable atmosphere; in a slightly, just slightly  concerned
voice, I said his name.
“Shimizu?”
His eyes met mine in that reserved way, as if studying my surprised face with little cause to do so.
Our stares were locked like that for a few minutes—his focused, mine curious—until he moved, his
hands reaching behind him to untie the apron. He removed his nametag as well, stuffing it in the
pocket of the apron as he folded the uniform up, brushing dust off his plain, long-sleeved white shirt
and jeans afterwards.
He glanced at his cell phone’s clock before looking at me again, his eyes seeming to soften under the
fluorescent lights of the store.
“It’s almost nine twenty—I should probably lock up the store.”
The reminder of the time snapped me out of my daze, and I felt panic overtake me as I realized how
much time had passed. By now, my mother had probably come home already!
And by the time I get back, I thought with a frown, there’ll be no point in studying.
I cursed under my breath, ignoring Shimizu’s curious, raised eyebrow as my mood turned for the
worse again.
“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice rather . . . amiable?
I shook off the thought, looking askance at the doorway.
“It’s nothing,” I said with some hiss left in my tone, my crossed arms tightening themselves around
my torso. “I just need to get home.”
He seemed to hesitate after my answer—for what reason, I had no clue—and after a moment’s pause,
he looked more unnerved that I had seen him in a while, his eyes unable to meet mine as he looked
towards the register as a distraction.
“I could—I could take you home, if you want.”
There was such a silence on my part after he had made his offer that a blush started to spread across
his lightly tanned cheeks, his handsome countenance taking on a sort of boyish look that I thought I
would never see Shimizu, of all people, wear.
“Well?” He asked impatiently to break the awkward stillness, and I blinked, taken aback by the
absolutely adorable expression he displayed. My formerly blank stare was overcome by red, blood
rushing to my face as I looked at him with something of an apology in my eyes.
“I . . . rode my bike here,” I told him, suddenly feeling very conscious of the fact that I was alone with
him, in a store far from home, way past closing time. My blush deepened at the realization, perhaps
not fully aware of just how much Shimizu was affecting my thought processes.
His expression dropped a bit in disappointment, though he made sure to cover that up for the most
part.
“Oh.”
He said it simply, but in such a way that it made me reconsider that little “epiphany” that I had had a
week ago—what if my mind had been right in that assumption? Surely, his actions that night had
proven to be no less indicative of the idea that hemight, indeed, like me.
For some reason, I felt bad; I supposed it was because that pitiable light in his eyes when he diverted
them away from me combined with his unbelievably kawaii (2) mood shifts (assumedly on my
account) created something of a guilty feeling within me.
“Gomen,” I said quickly, without really thinking, actually, and he looked up at me in surprise, causing
me to wince a little.
Shit.
“Why apologize?”
Shit. Shit. SHIT!!!
I bit my lip, nervous as I hadn’t been in days. “Ano . . . e-to . . .” I mumbled incoherently, feeling like
I had been cornered in my senseless version of logic.
He started to grin a little when he saw that my tongue was tied, and I pouted a little when I caught
the look.
“Let me guess . . .” he began, his grin widening a little, “‘I don’t know’,” ne?”
My nose twitched at his correct guess, my brow furrowing in displeasure. He only laughed at me,
having thrown back my usual response in my face and proving it to be even less effective than his “I
didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’m going home,” I said stiffly, though I still looked more like a pouting child than a callous young
woman. He only chuckled behind me, his footsteps closely following mine after a moment.
“Matte, Watanabe—come on, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, stifling a chuckle, but I only gave him
a soft glare, turning on my heel and out the store, unlocking my bike from its post.
He watched me from the door, smirking all the while, and once I had unlocked my bike I stared back
up at him, piqued.
“Are you done?” I asked grumpily, and though his smirk twitched as he let it fall from his lips, he only
nodded, the remnants of his humor never totally disappearing.
I was content with the gesture then, and hoped that it would be his last of that very long evening.
Not so, of course.
“Oh, Watanabe?”
“Nani?” I nearly growled, turning on him with irrationally irritated eyes.
“You forgot something, I think.”
I frowned, my menacing expression dropping as my brow furrowed again. “What could
I possibly forget—”
Before I finished, I saw a plastic bag with the herbal medicine bottles I had bought dangling from his
open hand, a smug look planting itself on his features.
I blushed terribly in embarrassment, plucking the bag from him in an instant and hiding my cherry-
colored cheeks from his line of sight.
“Oyasumi, Watanabe,” he said lightly as I sat myself atop the bicycle, my entire body still burning red.
I gave him a more unconvincing glare as my goodbye, speeding off into the night without another look
back.
---
Friday. Thank the gods.
I sighed in relief as I glanced up at the calendar, thankful to see one of my sloppy, red marker-drawn
circles around the date to mark the end of another school week. I hurriedly tugged on my calf-high
socks and my worn, black school shoes, knowing that my lateness would cause Hayato’s as well. I
could hear him having an early-morning chat with my mother in the kitchen, though much as I tried to
listen in on the conversation, I was too preoccupied with the state of my tangled bed-hair.
A couple minutes more of dressing and a burnt piece of rye toast in my mouth completed the daily
routine as I rushed to greet him, smiling through the sliced bread. He chuckled a little at my silliness,
my mother looking upon me with disapproval. I ignored her, of course.
“Well, you two’d better get going,” she said as I slipped on my blazer at the door, eyeing us
knowingly. “Nice talking with you as always, Hayato.”
He nodded in return, smiling briefly. “Same to you, Watanabe-san.”
I held back from rolling my eyes at the formality, quickly waving a goodbye to my mother and
gesturing for Hayato to do the same. He complied, and we left the house in a hurry, our feet, while
keeping a steady pace, being somewhat faster than usual.
“Still mad at your ’kaasan?” he asked casually, trying not to rile me up. I tensed, but not so much that
it would make him notice the difference. Usually he would avoid the topic of my mother altogether
when he was with me, but I guessed that he was just worried after what had happened on my
birthday a few weeks before. I shook my head lightly, though I didn’t smile.
“Iie,” I said softly as we rounded the corner to the train station, our forms stopping in front of the
presently empty tracks. “I’m never really happy around her, but I’m not mad anymore. But you
probably knew that anyway, ne?” I laughed a little despite the sore subject, and he only smiled a little
sadly at me, sensing my discomfort.
“I won’t bring it up again,” he said reassuringly, placing a gloved hand on my shoulder. I nodded as an
internal sigh echoed within me, assuaged by his calmness. I didn’t even feel the usual rush of
adrenaline when the train stopped in front of us, the two of us even managing to have some space in
the car. Hayato didn’t keep an arm around me for protection in that wider area, and while I missed
the extra heat, I was probably better off without his constant affections.
I can’t depend on him forever.
Once we reached the stop that was a few minutes’ walk from our school, we got off in unison, smiling
at each other without cause. We hadn’t spoken much on the way there, and as we made our way
towards the main building, we continued to travel in silence. I wondered at the change—we had
always had something to talk about before—but I guessed that between his recent shift in moods and
my constant mind games and encounters with Shimizu, our relationship was bound to evolve.
Nevertheless, the silence was more grave than neutral in nature, and its constancy was beginning to
make me anxious. Was he angry at me? Had I done something wrong? Did he do something wrong?
No, I thought to myself, it’s probably none of those things.
Then what was it? He was so unnaturally stoic that my anxiety was overcome by a general feeling of
unease, and the freshman girls that surrounded us on our way in didn’t even faze me in my sea of
worry.
Eventually (though it seemed like a million years later) we took our usual seats before homeroom
started in 1-D, and after a time of him not saying anything still, I took the initiative.
“Hayato? Daijoubu?”
He appeared to snap awake at my query, though that same, brooding gaze didn’t vanish like it would
before when I would talk with him. Instead, he only looked at me contemplatively, as if weighing
something in his mind.
“Kaho . . .” he couldn’t finish his thought at first, though his wrinkled forehead was a sure signal that
he would continue. I listened patiently, knowing that when Hayato was serious about something, he
wouldmake sure that I knew about it.
He started again after collecting himself, locking my eyes with his. “Come over this weekend.
I really  need to talk to you.”
The urgency in his plea wasn’t lost on my ears, nor was the gravity that he gave to each and every
one of his words. I could only nod in acquiescence, knowing that when Hayato needed me for
something, he truly needed me. As a friend, I couldn’t possibly turn him away, and also—
And also as the girl who loves him.
I crimsoned a little as my mind finished the thought for me, nodding again in agreement though I
already had. He touched the top of my hand lightly in thanks before turning back to the front, too lost
in his own world to elaborate further upon whatexactly  he wanted to talk about. I wasn’t upset by his
mood, having pulled something like this on him just a week before; still, I couldn’t deny that it had
planted a seed of fear in my heart for what lied ahead.
-------------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “See you tomorrow.”
2 cute
Title of chapter (translated): Discovery
Author’s Note: An editing note: a few times over the past few chapters I have used the phrase
“Konbanwa” inappropriately in the sense that the literal meaning is “Good evening,” and I used it as
“Good afternoon.” I would like to apologize for any confusion caused among my readers, and thank
you all for your patience in my breaks between chapters. I am very thankful for the many reviews and
new readers that are coming in lately, since I have to admit that while getting a ton of reviews for the
first few chapters IS instant gratification, it feels even more rewarding to work on a piece for an
extended period of time and gain steam along the way, having more and more people read and
appreciate your work. I thank you all for the lovely comments and criticisms, and hope that the latest
installment of this shoujo series didn’t disappoint you! As you all can see, I’ve been keeping the focus
fixed between the relationships of the three leads; more characters will get mixed into the fray as the
plot develops, as will more clashes between unexpected characters, but for now I want to keep the
framework pretty tight-knit so that later conflicts will be even more difficult to overcome. Hah, I’m
mean to my characters, I know! But everyone’s gotta experience the worst in life sometimes, and if
it’s not in high school, then when?
CHAPTER 12 PREVIEW:
Hayato’s weekend chat proves to be much more than Kaho ever expected—could she finally end up
telling him the truth about her feelings, or even about her and Shimizu?
 
 
 
Chapter 13: Shoudaku
 
 
 
He was doing it again.
I watched with masked apprehension as he cooked the usual udon dish for us both, my eyes never
trailing far from his large, calloused hands. I could think of nothing save for what he had told me at
school the day before; the memories of the strange encounters that I had had with Shimizu had, for
the most part, sunken into the recesses of my mind.
“Don’t look so serious, Kaho,” he chided me with an easy laugh, smirking a little. I ignored his
facetiousness, knowing that it was just a ruse to ease me into admitting something. He could be
clever and sly if he needed to be, though I had, by that time, figured out his little stratagem.
He cooks, I thought with a narrowed gaze, smiles, then laughs as though everything is fine. After that
. . . I paused, eyeing him cautiously.
After that, he can get me to say  anything
I didn’t like the idea of him getting the better of me again one bit, and I fully planned on outwitting
him this time around. Much as it was difficult for me to refuse him in any way, I found that it was
necessary if I were to keep my secrets secret.
I smiled back after a time, though I was sure that he could see through my affected expression. “Iie,”
I told him with a pout, “I’m just hungry! I barely ate today, anticipating your homemade dinner.” I
gestured towards the boiling pot that he was stirring in, and he grinned, though faintly.
He probably knows already.
I sighed exaggeratedly, flopping back on a cushion that lay on the wooden floor of Hayato’s
apartment. With a small movement I turned over to rest on my side, still watching him from my
position on the ground.
He chuckled at my restlessness, recognizing the insincerity of it but ignoring it in the midst of our little
game. “Bored already?” he asked with a small smirk, and I yawned in response, embellishing all of my
motions in order to display my knowledge of what he was really at.
“Of course not,” I answered, though I yawned a second afterward, that time more loudly than before.
I heard the ladle he was using with the noodles bang against the cooking pot, and I could have smiled
as I sensed (and heard) his frustration at my retaliating tactics build.
Surely, he couldn’t have expected me to not figure it out?
“Doushitano?” I asked concernedly when I noticed his frozen figure over the stove, though he quickly
shook off that demeanor, smiling blankly.
“N—nothing,” he replied hesitantly, continuing to stir the udon  with a patience that only Hayato could
muster. He smiled a moment later, as if he were trying to reassure himself that everything was going
according to plan. “It’ll be done in a few minutes, so just hang tight, ne?”
I didn’t answer his rhetorical question, simply staring at him as my mind ran in a hundred different
directions. I could guess easily enough where his interrogation later that night would lead; if previous
experiences with him were any indication, our talk would eventually wind up either beating around the
bush or directly on-point about any given topic. Considering how he had been recently, however, I
could tell that he wouldn’t be as delicate with me anymore about certain issues.
Especially about Shimizu—
“Dinner is served!”
I blinked in surprise as Hayato set down two bowls of udon on the table, and I easily lifted myself off
the floor, actually feeling somewhat hungry as I looked at the food before me. Damn him for knowing
how to coddle me!
I slurped down a few of the noodles contentedly, exclaiming (genuinely) “oishii!” (1) afterwards. He
looked grateful for the compliment, seeing that, for the moment, I was being my honest self. He
began to eat as well after he saw that I was well on my way to a second helping, though the
uneasiness that had sat in his eyes since last week did not go away even then.
Once I finished off the bowl, drinking down the last bit of broth, I glanced back up at him, seeing that
he was poking his udonwith little interest in eating the food that he had prepared himself. I sighed,
picking up my bowl and carrying it over to the sink, hoping that he would take the hint and snap out
of his daze.
“Ah, Kaho! You don’t need to do that—”
“Daijoubu,” I cut him off, smiling briefly at him. “I can take care of the dishes once in a while too, you
know.”
He left his own bowl and utensil set by the sink when he caught light of my seriousness, smiling in
thanks as I slowly rinsed and dried the pots, ladles, bowls, etc. I felt his eyes on me all the while, as if
assessing my susceptibility to his advances. I could only smile at the feeling that I had some control
then, knowing that even if he tried to extract information from me, I could predict and counter his
ploys.
Despite my assured defenses, I had to admit that I enjoyed his total, fixed attention on my person—it
had been much too long since I had felt so embraced by Hayato’s gaze, unromantic as it was in that
moment. I loved the feeling of his stare penetrating my person, his dark brown irises clouding over in
thought as they, I’m sure, wondered how to strike up the ideal discussion with me.
“There! All done,” I exclaimed as I placed the last of the dishes on the drying rack, smiling brilliantly
to illustrate my success. His eyes cleared when he heard me speak, a faltering smile on his lips.
“So—can we talk now?”
My smile drifted away once I heard that blunt question, and my stomach tightened as many of my
prepared responses simply flew out the window. I bit my lip to keep it from shaking, facing him with a
somewhat upturned chin.
“Sure.”
I tried to sound unafraid, even nonchalant in tone about the whole thing, but he knew straightaway
that I was just covering up my many insecurities. He motioned for us to sit on the couch in the living
room, and once we had taken our seats, he continued what he had started on Friday.
He began more gently than I thought he would after the strong opening, even taking on a downcast
sort of expression. “I feel like we haven’t talked in a while,” he said quietly, his eyes plaintive. “I . . .
I’m just really trying to figure out what happened between summer break and now.”
My own countenance softened in response to his statement, the distant yet vivid memories of our last
summer before secondary school coming alive in my mind’s eye. It had been a veritable paradise to
my oblivious self, still unknowing of Hayato’s “preference,” as it were; we had been together nearly
every day, going places, seeing things, and laughing our way through it all. Often I would fall asleep in
his arms on that very couch where we sat at present, or his head would rest on my shoulder at the
movies when he got tired of what we were watching. I had been so sure at that time that he would
return my feelings that I became blinded by my own affections—in retrospect, the memories of that
summer were rather bittersweet for me now.
I tried to insert a little humor into the seriousness of the conversation, smiling in amusement. “We
entered the tenth grade, Hayato! There’s so much more homework and projects now than there
everwere in middle school—we can’t always do everything together, you know.”
When his vision darkened, I knew that I had been a little too condescending in my remark, feeling
guilty for trivializing his original point. I knew full well what he had meant by “not talking in a while”; I
just didn’t want to tell him about my many distractions that had led us to such a disconnect in our
friendship.
“It’s not about doing things  together, Kaho,” he said with a small frown, though it deepened upon
seeing my continuing attempts to remain as unaffected as possible. “It’s more a matter of—of telling
each other what’s really on our minds when weare together.”
I swallowed at his implication, giving away my true feelings in that instant. We had been circling,
always circling  around that same issue; perhaps tonight he would finally strike his prey. For me, it
was a terrifying proposition, but to him? Most likely he thought little of whatever I felt about it all,
since I was the cause of the problem in the first place.
“Well . . . what would you like me to tell you?” I asked slowly, though the question was flawed from
the moment it left my lips. It simply gave him the opportunity ask the one thing that he had avoided
asking and I answering for months until then, and I nearly bit my lip to keep myself from saying
anything else that I would regret.
He sighed at the answer, looking exasperated. “That’s exactly the problem, Kaho—you shouldn’t have
to ask me what I want to know.” He eyed me carefully in the moment that followed that statement,
saying, “You should be able to tell me whatever you need to tell me.”
What I need to tell you, huh?
“And what if there’s nothing to say?”
He paused at the counter, but not for long. His eyes narrowed in on me, his focus tight on my barely-
composed features.
“Then don’t make things uncomfortable.”
I was startled by his answer; nonetheless, it infuriated me more than words could have possibly
expressed.
“‘Uncomfortable’?” I asked mockingly, my disdain for his reply getting the better of my senses, as
usual. “It’s you  who’s been making my life hell, who’s been—who’s been ruining everything—”
“Nani?”
I froze at the question, realizing in a moment the utter stupidity and hypocrisy of my outrage and
feeling helpless as to how to explain it.
Not to mention . . . what the fuck  was I about to say?
More silence followed his quick (though thoroughly surprised) response, both of standing there, not
sure of what to say to each other in the aftermath. I had embarrassed myself to the point of
muteness, and he had been stunned to the point of quiet befuddlement.
Altogether, it was rather awkward, if not entirely unbearable to be around.
“I . . . I should go,” I murmured as my lips finally managed to squeak out any kind of noise, my legs
following the cue as they walked towards the door. I heard him follow my footsteps for a bit before
stopping behind me when my hand neared the handle, his silent confusion hitting me like a ton of
bricks.
“Don’t.”
My fingers trembled over the handle, briefly thinking of staying with him; I soon understood, however,
that staying there would probably make me say things that I didn’t want to say, or, even worse, he
would get me to finish the sentence that he had cut me off at earlier. So my hand tightened over the
knob of the door, turning it as I said my piece.
“I have to.”
---
He didn’t follow me out the door like he would in the past—I suspected that it had been my
undoubtedly shocking words that had stayed him from pursuing me, and for that I could not blame
him in the least.
Without a hint of caution from within, I had probably started the undoing of our previously close
friendship, our very bond that had kept us together like two peas in a pod for so long. I wasn’t sure
how I had let myself go ahead and almost give away everything to him in mere seconds; I guessed
that his comment about me making things
“uncomfortable” all the time certainly hadn’t helped my already-tense mood. I wondered at the fact
that I had become so unraveled in my train of thought so quickly, and at the idea that I had, at least
for the moment, severely strained relations between Hayato and myself.
How can you be so mechanical about all of this?
I couldn’t stop the question from sounding in my head as I thought about what I had done, walking
out of his apartment building and towards some unknown destination. Why was I treating everything
so methodically, so strategically, so—soheartlessly? Was I really so afraid of his judgment and true
feelings that I couldn’t deal with letting myself respond to the debacle on more than just a base,
operational level?
But what good would come of reacting to anything overemotionally anymore? I had cried too much
and given too much thought to covering up my mistakes and hiding any trace of affection besides that
of a friend’s for Hayato for years by then; perhaps I had simply subscribed to the idea of “what’s done
is done” without first comprehending what it meant to my cynical mind.
Yet that phrase, after all was said and done, ended up being the truest: what was said was said, and
nothing could be done about it save an apology that wouldn’t sound sincere to him anyway. It was a
sickening sensation to know that I had done something that was possibly irreversible, but at the same
time, there was a small weight that was lifted from my conscience. I had wanted to say a variation of
what I had told him for months before then; obviously, I hadn’t planned on being so harsh and unfair
in tone, but of course it came out that way. I wondered, briefly, if spitting out everything, without
interruption, would have ultimately made me feel a little less spiteful of my current situation and more
sympathetic towards him (which I should have been from the start, truthfully).
By the time I arrived at Morimoto’s, it was already five o’clock, and the sun was fast-setting in the
evening sky. My legs had somehow led me there during the process of my half-hour plus walk, and
my mind had been too involved with the events earlier to carry out any conscious commands to the
rest of my body.
Maybe there’s a reason why they took me here.
I entered the store without a thought as to what, or who,  was inside—I walked the aisles blankly, as if
lost in a dream. My eyes lazily scanned the items on the shelves, the people eyeing me suspiciously
that walked around my sullen figure, the registers ahead.
The registers . . .
“Watanabe?”
I heard my name spoken nearby, if only faintly; my gaze gradually found its way over to where
Shimizu stood at his register, looking at me with less surprise but with more concern than before. I
noted the irritated expressions of the customers as they stared accusingly at me, as if I were the
reason that their purchases weren’t being processed.
“Ano . . . could you scan my items?” A housewife at the register prodded Shimizu into action with her
polite request, and he snapped out of his daze, reddening.
“Hai—gomen nasai,” he apologized quickly for the slip-up, doing his job as per usual until he had
taken care of the last customer in line. He gave the counter and surrounding area a quick once-over
before taking off his work apron, making his way towards me with careful, measured steps.
“Are you . . . what are you doing here?”
He asked it in more of a curious than angry tone, so I was calmed a little, though I was still feeling a
bit too insecure to answer him just then. He seemed to take my silence as a sign of my ill state of
health, giving a small signal of some kind to his boss that I couldn’t understand at the time. With a
small tug on my shoulder, he gestured towards the exit to the store, giving me a meaningful look.
“Come on, I’ll take you home—”
“Iie,”  I said suddenly, freezing in place as I shook my head softly, closing my eyes as a dull pain
resounded in my head. “Not there. Not near him.”
From the look on his face, I could tell that he understood, if only on a basic level, something of what I
was trying to say. He didn’t let go of my shoulder, though his grip loosened as he spoke again.
“Then we’ll go somewhere else, ne?”
I nodded weakly, his hand falling from my shoulder as he opened the door for us, our feet, for once,
stepping onto the pavement in perfect unison.
-----------------------------------------------
Title of chapter (translated): Acquiescence
Author’s Note: SO SORRY for the friggin’ long-ass absence; in the past few weeks I’ve been preparing,
packing, and moving into my new place of residence (a college dorm, if you were curious), and
haven’t had much time on the side to finish up this chapter that I started such a long time ago. I know
it will disappoint some of you, or seem incoherent in parts; I promise that the next chapter will
redeem the failures of this one (of which I’m sure there are many). I really tried to build suspense up
in this chapter to that one outburst of real emotion that Kaho has, and I do apologize if the aftermath
became a bit anticlimactic as she analyzes her own reaction, but that IS my writing style, I suppose.
CHAPTER 14 PREVIEW:
After letting Shimizu lead her to a place away from the worries and difficulties from Hayato, will Kaho
be able to resist the ultimate temptation: Shimizu himself?
 
 
 
 
Chapter 14: Kiwa
 
 
 
“Do you want any more tea, Watanabe?”
I shook my head with a soft smile, setting down my cup on a saucer that sat atop the coffee table
in the living room. “Iie. Arigatou, Shimizu.”
He nodded in return with his own, small smile, turning the stove off as he made his way back
towards where I sat on the floor, sipping my tea with the smallest of movements. Once he settled
down across from me, he drank from his own cup, staring at me every so often (but not enough
to arouse suspicion). I returned his looks at the same pace, feeling awkward yet content.
It was odd, being alone with him in his house; the fact that it was rather big and spacious didn’t
help, either. Our usual, aggressive dispositions were tempered by the quietude in that room,
though that same, underlying tension that always existed between us lingered, if only in trace
amounts. I had never suspected that he would take me back to his place, nor he that I would ever
be in it—in that fact alone there was surprise enough to silence both of our baiting lips.
Nevertheless, I felt a strange, foreign sensation of comfort in his home. Maybe it was the
afternoon sun that dipped into the horizon right outside the window, or the warmth from the
heating system inside, or even the simple, sparse furnishing of the place—by any account, it was
just a nice place to lounge and enjoy myself, if only for the time being.
By contrast, when I glanced occasionally at Shimizu, he looked positively gloomy in his own
house: all the light had gone from his eyes, and his fighting spirit and biting personality were
nowhere to be found. Really, he looked like me when I was in my house, but my moodiness at
home, I thought, was more justified than his.
Then again, I thought, it’s not as if I know much about him.
I started at the suggestion, suddenly realizing that what my mind had said was all too true. All I
“knew” about Shimizu I had heard from other people around school: that he was the class
president, the star of the track team, the top student . . . but that couldn’t have been all there was
to him, right? I didn’t want to compare him to an onion, but indeed, it did seem like he had more
layers than met the eye, especially considering the contrast between his behavior around school
and when he was around me.
Not to mention—if he has such a huge house, why does he need that crappy job at Morimoto’s?
The various idiosyncrasies of his conduct did not escape me, however I could hardly put them
together with the few clues that I had about him. After all, it’s not as though he were Hayato,
whom I knew absolutely everything about; he was a new puzzle to solve, and one that, up until
that point, I hadn’t cared enough about to take a look at seriously.
So why bother now? How is it any different from before?
I didn’t even know how to begin to answer that self-posed question, so I turned my gaze from
his figure, feeling somewhat depressed myself by his solemn mood. Then again, it wasn’t as
though I was feeling any better after what had happened with Hayato; I had left his apartment in
a mire of dismalness, and I remained rather miserable with my current prospects.
“I should probably get out of here,” I said quickly after we had sat in silence for nearly ten
minutes, getting up as I spoke. “I’ve imposed on you too much already.”
“Iie, it’s fine,” he told me, snapping out of his melancholy daze. “Really, you can stay if—if you
need to.”
His pause made me hesitate as well, and on second thought, I sat back down on the ground,
though it was in one long, slow movement. “All right,” I said simply, kneeling in front of the
coffee table. “I . . . I’ll stay.”
He looked a bit taken aback at the statement, having fully expected me to leave like I always did,
but there was some relief written on his features when he saw me settle back into my seat. I
couldn’t help but smile briefly at that childlike satisfaction that he displayed once every so often,
though I hid that from him for fear that he would take it the wrong way.
I’m not here for him—I’m here because I have nowhere else to go.
“So . . .” he said after he took another sip of the lukewarm tea, and I raised an eyebrow at his
beginning, responding in turn.
“So . . . ?”
“What happened with—with your boyfriend?” He said the last word in a slightly disdainful tone,
as if it disgusted him to utter it; I tensed at the question, answering shorthand.
“He’s not my . . . boyfriend,” I said, feeling weird after just saying that word in association with
Hayato. “Just a friend.”
I felt my voice quiet down once I had said that phrase for what had to have been the millionth
time—even after repeating it as much as I had throughout primary, middle, and secondary
school, it still hurt to hear myself have to say it again.
He regarded my answer quietly, though not without a hefty dose of curiosity. His chocolate eyes
questioned my downcast expression, wondering, perhaps, why I would be so sad over a
mere friend.
“Well then,” he continued after a minute, “what happened with your friend?”
Was he more patient than before? I wasn’t altogether sure, but I noted a significant improvement
in the way he spoke to me in that he took his time, making sure that I was ready before he
attacked me with his (normally) irritating questions. I didn’t even mind so much at that time that
he was asking me such personal queries, since he did it more skillfully than he had in the past; I
rewarded his efforts, if only by way of an ambiguous and resistant reply.
“We got in a fight.” I didn’t bother to elaborate, and he snorted, his patience, for the moment,
having expired.
“Well that’s pretty damn obvious,” he retorted, staring at me pointedly. “What was the
fight about?”
I glared at him, disliking his vulgarity. “None of your damn business, if you’re gonna be such a
dick about it.”
He glowered at me, scowling in annoyance. “Fine. Forget I asked,” he spat, drinking the rest of
his tea before snatching his cup from the table and stalking off to the kitchen. It seemed that,
despite his intense sullenness around his own home, I could still rouse him to a fighting stance.
After a few minutes of him angrily picking out a fruit from the fridge, eating it, and walking off
into another room, I began to feel a bit guilty for being so purposefully hard-nosed about
everything. He really looked as though he cared about what I had to say about Hayato in those
few moments preceding my crisp reply; I had probably just turned him off with my
uncompromising attitude, and for that, I could only blame myself.
Besides, I thought sadly, is there anyone else that you can really talk to at this point?
I had exhausted all my other resources as far as sympathy went—I knew that, at least. No one,
save for Hayato, would ever  bother to listen to my problems or concerns: they would simply
blow me off as “that girl that Hayato always hangs around” or “that bitch that doesn’t talk to
anyone except for Hayato” and write off anything I had to say. After all, what problems could
I possibly have when I had the affections of Hayato on my side, right? I glowered at the idea,
knowing full well its many fallacies. I was no better off than anyone else; in fact, I was probably
worse off than most of the girls in my school when it came to my odd and tragically complicated
love life.
But I wasn’t about to let self-pity rule the day. I had to make things right again, somehow—to
apologize, to forgive, and to forget so that I could continue on with my life. And what better way
to start then making amends with Shimizu? It was a strange proposition to think of after being at
odds with him for so long, but necessary if I was to rebuild what I had lost both in the past and in
the present. I rose from my seat in an instant, following the trail of invisible footsteps that were
left in his wake. Once my nose caught the scent of fresh linen nearby, I obliged my senses,
walking towards the closed door to, I presumed, the laundry room.
That was when I began to feel nervous.
What if he really doesn’t care about it at all?
What if I’m just the baka who’s too caught up in my own little world to see outside of it?
What if he . . . what if he . . .
I paused, slowing my thought process until it reached its inevitable conclusion.
What if  he rejects me?
I swallowed, disturbed beyond words by that one, simple notion. I was so used to being the
person that repelled everyone around me—the person that pushed people away and never
expected to be pushed back.
I can’t keep doing this. I have to—I have to let someone in.
I have to let someone in before I lose everything.
I opened the door to the room in a quiet burst of inner strength, emboldened by the need to
connect with someone. Anyone.
Him.
His bare back faced me as I stood by the just-opened door, its tendons and masculine contours
tensing as they sensed my presence from behind. His beautifully-structured shoulders raised
slightly in alert, his calloused, large hands closing into fists.
“Nani?”
He didn’t turn to face me when he spoke, as it appeared that he was still angry with me;
nevertheless, I was drawn in by the brusque, gruff question, the light growl in his deep tone
creating a small flutter at the pit of my stomach. I stepped closer to his back still, enjoying, for
once, the uncomfortable silence (interrupted only by the ever-present sound of the water as it
swirled around in the washing machine) that floated about the compacted air of the room.
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” I asked innocently, guessing well enough that it was probably
in the washer with the rest of his laundry. I held back a coy smile when he turned his face
slightly more towards me, his expression one of profound irritation.
“Are you trying to piss me off even more?” he asked back, his jaw locked in ire. “Just back off,
ne?”
I flinched a little at his bitterness, yet my determination only grew because of it. Once he had
turned back around, staring at the wall in front of him, I closed the distance between us.
His bare skin felt cool against my cheek as I pressed my head against his back, my arms
wrapping themselves around his waist. I whispered an apology into his lower back, though I
made sure that he could hear it.
“Gomen, Shimizu. Gomen nasai.”
I felt his entire body freeze from the moment I had touched it with my own; once I had
apologized, however, it relaxed at an inexplicably fast rate, some warmth rushing to his skin. My
own face heated at his reaction, my mind, perhaps, understanding the gravity of my actions.
What I was doing then—wasn’t it akin to some great act of affection? And . . . and . . .
Doesn’t Shimizu  like me?
My blush deepened a thousand fold in the aftermath of my overly-intimate gesture, my arms
suddenly retracting their grip on him as they wiggled in embarrassment, hiding behind my back
as I stepped away from him.
“Ah, ano, gomen! I didn’t—I didn’t mean to do that, I mean, eto, I didn’t mean to hu—”
I was silenced as his pinked face hovered over mine, his form having turned about to face me in
the seconds following my withdrawal from our (brief) embrace. His thick brown hair swayed
softly as he cornered me by the washing machine, his eyes entirely fixated on me as I stared back
at him, wide-eyed. I hadn’t thought of attracting his attentions in this way—no, not at all! I had
only wanted to display an act of goodwill towards him, of reconciliation, and yet . . . by hugging
him, I had only given him the affirmation that he had always wanted.
Do you not want this?
His eyes seemed to be telling me that on a very basic level, and I couldn’t help but wonder as to
how I would answer them. Whatever I had intended to happen was far from my mind as I
returned his gaze, sucked in by the raw masculinity that he possessed in spades. Could I deny
what he offered me in that instant? What he freely gave to me in spite of all our previous
squabbles and my unrelenting wretchedness towards him? Did I even have the will to
say no  anymore?
I do, but . . .
I don’t care.
His very breath entranced me as I let my eyes close halfway, my lashes fluttering as the palm of
his right hand slid up against my left cheek. I nuzzled my skin against his lightly, my own hand
reaching up to grasp his. His other hand brushed away the bangs from my eyes, tracing a line
down from my cheekbone to my neck; when I felt his rough fingertips graze my collar, I
shuddered.
“Watanabe.”
I had never particularly liked the sound of my last name when spoken aloud; when he said it,
however, I felt my eyes close, assuaged by the smooth brogue of his voice. The hand that held
my cheek shifted slightly, its thumb gently outlining the curvature of my lips with a delicacy that
I hadn’t known Shimizu to have. My mouth opened a bit in an unconscious response, silently
giving him permission to do what both he and I desired then.
“Shimi—”
“Jun! We’re home!”
Both our eyes snapped open at once, though he looked more panicked than I once he realized
who had come through the door.
“Fucking hell,” he snapped under his breath in real distress, grabbing a shirt from a basket of
clean laundry at the corner of the room and quickly slipping it on. He exited the room without
even giving me so much as a warning, ignoring my very presence in his rush.
I was more shocked than insulted, at first—obviously, neither of us had expected to be so
abruptly interrupted in the middle of our . . . well . . . thing, and I wasn’t entirely unsympathetic
of his apparent anger.
Even so, the speed and alacrity with which he had detached himself from me had been rather
extraordinary, if not altogether suspicious, and I watched him casually meet his parents as though
nothing had been going on just seconds before their arrival.
“Ah, ’kaasan, ’tousan . . . weren’t you two supposed to be working late tonight?”
His mother smiled brightly, obviously pleased to have received that question in particular. “Well,
we were supposed to, demo . . . we both just happened to get off earlier than usual tonight!” She
laughed a little after finishing, though I could see little trace of such joy on Shimizu’s own
features.
His father continued where his mother had left off, his own face containing a hint of a grin. “So,
we thought that we might go out for dinner tonight in celebration—what do you say, Jun? It’s not
often we get to eat out as a family, ne?”
Shimizu gave an entirely affected smile in return, his jaw flinching despite his cheery words.
“Ah, sou ka. When—when are we ‘going out,’ then?”
He seemed pained by the very notion, and his hesitation did not go unnoticed by his father. The
older man’s expression darkened, his eyes staring uncompromisingly at his son.
“Don’t even think  about ruining this for us,” he told Shimizu with a scowl, his jaw clenching in a
manner much like his son’s. “We’re going out to eat in half an hour, and
that’s final. Understood?”
Shimizu looked off to the side, refusing to face his father.
“Hai, otousan.”
That scathing tone that he used with his father made me shudder in apprehension, my frame stiff
by the laundry room as I watched the “familial” proceedings. It seemed that things were worse
there than in my own house—how that was possible, I wasn’t sure, but that seemed to be the
case.
“Now go and get dressed properly, Jun—something nice, ne?” I heard his mother say as Shimizu
stalked back to the laundry room, the hair on the back of his neck rising with every step that he
took towards me. I hid behind the door, hoping that he would think that I was ignorant of what
had happened.
“You heard everything.”
No such luck.
His statement was so definitive that I didn’t bother refuting it, simply standing by the door that
he had opened again. I watched for his reaction to his own words, and, to my surprise, he sighed
a little, closing the door gently and leaning his back against it just as softly. He looked a bit
wistful there, yet filled with regret; I felt sorry for him without wanting to, his conversation with
his father reminding me of my past ones with my mother.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly, his eyes turning to stare at me with a quiet intensity. “Don’t pity
me.”
I shook my head, smiling sadly. “It’s not so much pity as it is—as it is—” I searched for the right
word, and when I found it, I met his gaze with real meaning in my own, finally feeling that on
some level, I had come to comprehend him.
“Understanding.”
He looked surprised by the answer, at first; after a second or two, however, that expression left
his face, our momentary connection dispelled by the rueful smile which played over his pale lips.
“I doubt that.”
-----------------
Title of chapter (translated): The Brink
Author’s Note: I’m not up for explaining what happened here all too much—I know that you
guys, the readers, might disagree with me about Kaho suddenly embracing Shimizu as being
OOP, but I feel that their relationship has slowly been building up to this point over the past
fourteen chapters: to the point where Kaho will do things without thinking, to warm towards
those that she wouldn’t have before. Anyway, look forward to more “shitsuren (heartbreak)”
over the course of the rest of the fic, more secrets, and more lies—everything that makes high
school life so intriguing to write about (hah!). I hope that you all stay with me ‘till the bitter end!
CHAPTER 15 PREVIEW:
Kaho has taken an irreversible step forward in her relationship with Shimizu, but can she cope
with the consequences of what a secret affection might mean for her continued, confused love for
Hayato, or for her reputation at school?
 
 
 
Chapter 15: Boukyaku
 
 
Shimizu managed to shoo me out of his house in that same, speedy manner that he had used to
approach his parents earlier; I left feeling alternately violated and utterly confused, wondering if,
perhaps, I had finally experienced what he had all those times when I had left him hanging.
Even so—was that rush  really necessary?
I certainly didn’t believe so, though I had to admit that I didn’t quite understand the
circumstances under which Shimizu had pulled the plug on our “moment” together. Was his
family situation really so bad as to take away all of his attentions in a single, unexpected second?
Or was I so entrenched in my belief that he liked me that even the slightest detraction from that
attitude left me clueless?
In any case, I was left with a lot of questions on my mind as I laid on my bed, staring at the
ceiling and hoping that I would be left to my own thoughts.
“Kahoko! Phone for you!”
I scowled as my body lifted itself from my bed in one slow, languorous movement, taking my
time as I grabbed the phone from its holder. I grumbled a moody greeting into the device.
“Hai?”
“Kaho? It’s me.”
I swallowed at the sound of his voice, my displeased expression dissolving instantly. I was
speechless at his mellow tone, entirely incapable of producing a reply that would make any
rational sense. I heard him sigh on the other end, as if defeated.
“You don’t have to answer. I just . . . needed to hear your voice, that’s all.”
I felt a flutter pulse through me when he said that, a brief flush of happiness rushing across my
features. Still, I made no move to respond, waiting for what he would say next.
“I hope—I hope we can still talk tomorrow, maybe. I really didn’t like—well, I
actually hated the way things went today.”His honesty gave me due pause, though he continued
after a moment. “Please, just . . . just don’t ignore me again, ne? I miss you.”
There was a small measure of silence after that—my heart pounded in the resulting quiet,
hanging on his every word. He spoke after a time, his voice as heartbroken and vulnerable as I
had ever heard it.
“I miss  Kaho.”
I didn’t hear his small farewell after that; that last phrase that he had said kept echoing in my
head to the point where my ears tuned out the sound of the dead line on the phone as he hung up,
my senses dulled.
I made him believe that it was his fault.
I set the phone back on its holder as I turned from my desk, my eyes drooping in guilt. I had
acted for far too long as though I were the only victim in this endlessly cruel scenario—as
though I had no affect on the happiness of the people involved. But hearing him speak so
entreatingly made me realize, all too quickly, the error of my ways up to that point. Indeed, I
wondered if I had ever considered his feelings at all during everything that had happened over
the past few months. My selfish desires and unattainable fantasies had driven me towards the
kind of personality that I never thought I would have: arrogant, ignorant, and impassioned. I had
vowed never to have those kinds of traits in the past, yet now . . . it seemed that they were
unavoidable, given the circumstances.
Bullshit, I heard my brain say in its logical way, brushing off my notions of inevitability. You
just let things go too far. You didn’t pay close enough attention.
You forgot about him.
I could deny what my mind was saying, but I knew that that was to no avail—all of it was true in
the bitterest sense of the word, and by then I could do little else but accept the fact. I had hurt
Hayato, perhaps to an irrevocable degree, and that regardless of how things were supposed to be,
the actual turnout would be a mystery to me.
I knew innately, however, that I had to try—just as I had with Shimizu earlier that day, there was
a small surge of confidence in what I could accomplish if I put my heart into it. Granted, the
results of that earlier attempt at reconciliation had gone awry, but . . . it was hard to believe
that that had even happened at all.
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts before I went to sleep.
Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.
---
Hayato didn’t meet me at my house the next morning, but it wasn’t as though I had expected him
to after all was said and done. I took the train to school by myself with a heavy sigh, watching
my surrounding area as he would have done for my protection. It was lonely to be there by
myself, obviously, but I knew I didn’t deserve any better after the way I had treated him.
And yet, even when I finally entered the school by myself with the eyes of hundreds of puzzled
Hayato fangirls following my every move, I still couldn’t find him—not even in his usual seat at
homeroom, where I was sure  he would be. Instead, I only saw an empty chair where he would
have been sitting, smiling at me in that lively way of his. My face tightened at his absence,
holding back from frowning morosely. I had to get on with my day, or I would surely go crazy
with doubt.
In an effort to return to normalcy, I pulled my chair out to sit down upon, though my eyes
opened in surprise when I had drawn it fully out.
A note.
I carefully peeled it off the chair, sticking it in my pocket quietly as I sat down, unfolding it
under the guise of reviewing my work from the night before.
As I read it, my eyes gradually widened to the point of pure shock.
Watanabe—
Meet me in 2A after school. I need to talk to you.
Shimizu
I crumpled the note in my clenched fist once I had finished reading it, my gaze tightening in both
anger and embarrassment at the contents. A blush so fierce that I could not bear to contain it
spread over all my features, and I felt so distracted by him again that I did not even notice the
looks I was receiving, nor from whom  the looks came.
“Kaho? Daijoubu?”
My flush did not dissipate when my head craned up to face Hayato, though the anger did die
down somewhat in the midst of my surprise.
“Ha—Hayato! I—I’m fine, I think.” I hid the note within my fist, covering part of my face with
my free hand as I reviled my own reaction to his ridiculous request.
Hayato gave me a questioning look for a moment, but said nothing. Rather, he only sat down in
front of me, his eyes softening as he encountered my averted gaze, so embarrassed was
I still from what I had just read.
He spoke after a moment, his voice pausing. “I . . . I’m sorry about last night’s phone call. I don’t
even remember much of what I said, really.” He laughed at himself, though there was not much
amusement in his tone. He ran a hand through his hair when I only stared back at him, noting his
nervous habit.
“Don’t pretend, Hayato,” I told him gently, my blush fading rapidly as guilt struck me harder
than a stray bullet. “I—” I paused, finding the right phrasing to finish my thought, unorganized
as it was. “I appreciated the call, really.”
He leaned back lightly at my reply, both surprise and relief crossing his face. But his relief did
nothing to allay my growing sense of culpability in all of it, and I could only give him the
smallest indication of thanks from my otherwise sullen features. He seemed to take it in stride,
continuing to try and repair our relations.
“I’m glad it made some sense to you,” he said with a small grin. Upon seeing my humorless
expression, however, he coughed a little, leaning in closer to me. “Did it, Kaho?”
I looked away from him, speaking in just above a whisper.
“Not here, Hayato,” I said, “not here.”
It seemed that, after ignoring them for so long, the growing crowd of bystanders watching us was
finally getting to me—I reddened when Hayato caught my drift, and he leaned back in his chair
in response. His expression of interest dropped so quickly that I almost flinched at the change,
his persona shifting back to one of feigned neutrality. In the lowest murmur possible, he
communicated one last message to me that morning.
“Meet me outside the side door after school.”
---
I felt fidgety the entire day after he had gotten the last word in, feeling, even more so than I had
the night before, that I was responsible for whatever would happen next. I paid little attention to
whatever happened in class, but Morioka never called on me that day—a stroke of luck, I was
sure, that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.
“Ano . . . Watanabe-san? I think you dropped this.”
I looked to the side where a classmate of mine, Yanaka Hideki, was holding something in his
hand, offering it up to me. I scrunched up my nose at the object, unable to tell what it was even
from such a short distance away. After an awkward moment of him holding it and me staring,
though, I quickly retrieved the foreign item from him, reddening sheepishly.
“Arigatou,” I thanked him quietly, but he only rolled his eyes at my slow reaction, his gaze
returning lazily to the front of the room where Morioka lectured. I frowned lightly at the look,
but brushed it off a moment later, distracting myself, instead, with the crumpled up paper in my
hand. It was only then, as I unfolded it as soundlessly as possible, that I realized what it was.
Fuck.
The blush that had infected my features earlier came back with a vengeance, and I crumpled the
paper back up just as soon as I had opened it again. How could I have completely forgotten
about his absurd note from that same morning? Too many things had happened all at the same
time, I supposed—that was, really, my only excuse for not remembering.
I glanced up at the clock above the door to the room, freezing in place when I realized that in a
mere five minutes, the school day would be over. The acknowledgement of such a fact
frightened me more than anything had in a long while; I sat totally still, staring blankly ahead as
my mind raced to find a solution to my multiple crises. Would it be better to just see Shimizu and
get it over with, or reject his request altogether and go home with Hayato? Certainly, I thought, it
would look better to Hayato if I met himimmediately—but could I leave things with Shimizu as
they were and do nothing about our unresolved encounter the day before?
The choices were few and their consequences difficult to grasp; I toyed with both propositions
that were floating in my head until the bell rang, signaling the end of my last class. I virtually
ignored Hayato as he exited the room before me, though our eyes met for a split second before
he walked out the door, the majority of my class following him out. I continued to sit for a while
longer, my brain in knots over the correct course of action to take—I felt alternately indignant
and at fault for the almost immitigable circumstances which surrounded me.
Why should I meet him? Why can’t I just forget about his  fucking note and just explain things
clearly to him and  toHayato?
Yet I knew, even as I asked myself those questions, that the answers were fairly obvious. It was
true: there was no easy solution to any of my problems. Even so, I knew that ignoring Shimizu
would only lead to more uncertainty about “us,” and that I had to put an end to whatever had
started in his laundry room on the previous day. I couldn’t keep lying to Hayato about what was
going on; I either had to hurt him by continuing my association with Shimizu, or entirely
terminate the connection and stop the vicious cycle from going on any further.
Between those two options, my mind made its final decision.
---
I slid the door to 2-A open with little fanfare, closing it behind me just as stoically. He regarded
my entrance with some surprise, but showed little clue otherwise of whether or not he had
expected me to return his appeal.
He moved a little closer to me from where he stood by the teacher’s desk, beginning, “Watanabe
—”
“Stop.”
He halted in his tracks at my stiff order, this time genuinely shocked by my cold tone. His eyes
widened slightly, taking in my frozen demeanor with a confused stare. I continued after a pause,
meeting his eyes with little sympathy.
“I’m not doing this anymore, Shimizu,” I said, my stare as hardened and determined as I had felt
it to be in months. “So don’t even take one more step in my direction.”
I saw him bristle at my command, though he was not so inclined as to disobey it . . . yet.
There was due silence before he spoke again, but when he did, his words were especially
spiteful. “Would you . . .” he started with a glare, “would you mind telling me just what
the hell you’re trying to pull?” By the time he finished, I wanted to flinch at the anger that
burned in his eyes—an anger that, ironically, made my temper flare up as well.
“Nothing, really,” I sneered, my controls on my ire weakening rapidly. “I’m just doing what I
should’ve done months ago.” I wanted to bite my tongue after I had said my piece, wondering,
really, how much I had to lie before I could make even one thing right again.
He stared at me quizzically, first; then, as my words sunk in, a frightful glower set into his
features, darkening his entire countenance.
“Sou ka.  So that’s how it is,” he spat, eyeing me as hatefully as I had seen him do so since we
had first met. “If that’s how you really feel, then go ahead. Get the fuck out.”
I felt a stab of pain rush to my stomach at his horribly straightforward reply, but at the same time
. . . a flood of resentment washed over me, and I rebutted him without thinking.
“Don’t act so fucking high and mighty,” I snapped, my fingers curling into fists, “when you  were
the one who ran out on me.”
I hesitantly closed my mouth as soon as I had said those intractable words—those same words, I
knew, would haunt me to my grave. I stared at him as though he were an alien: my eyes were
bug-eyed, my mouth pressed firmly shut, and my body as still as that of an animal’s in front of a
moving car.
He looked back at me with just as much shock, neither of us (especially me) expecting such a
passionate outburst after what had seemingly turned out to be a hate-filled, antagonizing end to
our relations. He took a few steps closer to me, as if to make sure that my surprised expression
was no illusion. His hand reached out from his side, nearing my figure . . . and just as quickly he
retracted it, his face softening in light of my exclamation.
“Is that . . . is that what this is really all about?” He asked quietly, and I couldn’t answer, my
brain still shell-shocked from the idiotic thing it had made my mouth spit out a few moments
earlier. I watched apprehensively as Shimizu drew closer to me, though my body could hardly
move away in its state of fear. Seeing my nervous silence, he took a step back, clearly unsure as
to how to improve the stunned quietude of the room.
“About yesterday, I . . .” he began, his eyes darting back and forth before greeting mine, “I
should have said this then.”
At that phrase, I looked at him inquiringly, my anxiety temporarily overcome by my curiosity at
what he meant. He started again after a hesitant breath, his stare plaintive.
“Gomen, Watanabe.”
His apology rendered me yet more silent than before, if that was even feasible; I was struck by
everything about it, from the permeating compassion in his tone to his gentle gesture when he
had held his hand out to me. I felt the corners of my eyes tear, in fact, when I realized that I still
had to meet up with Hayato—suddenly, the desire to stay was stronger and more misplaced than
ever before.
“I really have to go,” I whispered, holding back a sniffle as I readjusted my bag across my chest,
my fingers briefly wiping away a stray tear before it could roll down my cheek. I knew without
looking that he saw the move, and I began to walk towards the door again, disguising my shame
as best I could.
But Shimizu would have none of it, and he made his point when he leaned his arm against the
frame of the door, his warm breath traveling down my neck in slow, imploring exhales. His
shadow towered over mine, and I instinctively shivered in his masculine presence.
Nonetheless, my hand moved to the slot in the door that would allow me to leave, my fingers
tightening around it—
“Don’t.”
His hand grasped the one that tried to escape, enveloping my entire frame within his strong
embrace with little resistance from my person. Instead, the tears only began to fall without
warning, my lip trembling uncontrollably.
“Yamete, Shimizu,” I murmured through my small sobs, “yamete—” (1)
In one swift motion, he turned me around, his hand caressing my tear-streaked cheeks. There was
sadness in his eyes—a deep, entreating void of longing that I could not abandon, not then. I
could do little else but cry at his expression, yet he kissed away every salty drop of water that ran
down my face, and I tasted the bitter flavor of my melancholy when he pressed his heated lips to
mine.
My second kiss.
It was tender, yet excited and filled with the unhinged lust that both of us had been holding back
for so long until that point. His lips felt unfamiliar, but natural against mine; in a way, it were as
though we had both let our feelings run their natural course through to what was happening then.
I even felt a bit awkward as the kiss deepened and my inexperience began to show, my lips
breaking from his to catch a momentary breath. It wasn’t long after that, though, that he closed
the distance between us again, teaching me, with no dictation necessary, what to do next.
I leaned into him as we kissed, eventually pushing him into a desk nearby and nearly causing
him to fall. We both laughed a little at that—and then we smiled cleverly at one another for a
second before continuing our kiss, his hands running through my hair and lightly touching my
collar throughout. I was content to place my open palms on his chest, my fingers tightening on
his shirt whenever I felt his tongue gently slide along the underside of mine.
Everything felt so new, so enthralling, and so perfect—even if he was not the man that I had
wanted to experience all those things with first. Our temporary union simply felt good, and good
was something that I had not had the fortune of happening upon in quite some time. I heard
myself sigh breathily between our kissing, my heart racing lustily even as my brain
acknowledged something which my body could not.
You’ve forgotten about Hayato, haven’t you?
---
Japanese Terms:
1 “Stop it”
Title of chapter (translated): Forgetfulness
Author’s Note: Well, you’ve all been waiting for this (I assume), so . . . HERE IT IS! Haha,
well, I was waiting for this moment, anyway. It IS a major turning point in the fic, in case you
were wondering, so expect a lot more bitter heartbreak to follow than in all of the past chapters
combined! Oh, and that thing I mentioned about more characters getting mixed up in the fray
eventually? Expect his/her/their appearance(s) to come in at about chapter 17, give or take. After
all, I KNOW you all want to see how/if/when Kahoever meets with Hayato, and how/if/when
she continues her (now) passionate relationship with Shimizu. And be assured, ALL will be
answered in le next chapter!
CHAPTER 16 PREVIEW:
Finally, the deed is done . . . and Kaho and Shimizu have finally released their inhibited desires
for one another. But to what end will their lustful encounter in 2-A come? And can Kaho
continue to ignore her impending confrontation with Hayato?
 
 
Chapter 16: Bunri
 
 
There was an unspoken agreement between Shimizu and I as I slung my carrier bag back over
my shoulder, a faint smile left on both our sets of lips as I neared the door, his frame close
behind. His index finger lazily traced the contour of my right shoulder blade; my skin warmed to
his touch, the foreign sensation of comfort filling every pore of my being.
With one last, lingering look between us, we exchanged silent goodbyes, and I slid the door of 2-
A open as circumspectly I could without seeming too suspicious. Luckily, as I glanced about,
there didn’t seem to be too many people that would care about me, specifically—upperclassmen,
though interested in Hayato and dubious of my intentions, were not quite as nosy or rude as those
freshmen that harassed me. I walked out into the hallway confidently, emboldened so by my
encounter with Shimizu; my back, usually slightly slumped over in defeat, was poised for a
challenge.
I found myself traveling in the direction of the side exit of the school without realizing it, but
once I reached the door and looked through its lucid windows, all of my confidence disappeared.
Hayato stared at me through the door with a hollow expression, his back hunched over from the
weight of having stood out in the cold for half an hour with his bag slung over it. His face looked
set in stone, his features deathly grave in their stoicism. I swallowed nervously before stepping
through the door, wincing as it loudly locked in place behind me. The cold air of winter hit my
face with a chilling force, as if signaling to me the bleak prospects that lie ahead.
How could I forget?
But it wasn’t really a matter of forgetting as it was about my deceiving him—I knew that, much
as I didn’t want to acknowledge it. My mind raced for an appropriate excuse while understanding
that whatever I said would, in no way, excuse my actions.
“G—Gomen nasai, Hayato. I just . . .” The words were lost on me at that point, and I gave up on
trying, biting my lip before I had the chance to incriminate myself further. Hayato only stared at
me in response, though, after a fair amount of time spent eyeing the other uneasily, he started to
walk away from the school, baffling my person. I called out to him after my head had caught up
with my troubled heart, my voice strained from the cold.
“Matte, Hayato—please don’t leave!”
He stopped in his tracks, looking back stonily before replying unaffectedly, “I wasn’t leaving.”
I understood him in that instant—how I hadn’t earlier, I didn’t know, but suddenly I realized that
he was silently beckoning me to follow him, his dark brown eyes void of explanation. I blew hot
breath into my hands once he had turned back around, continuing his walk at a moderate pace,
and a few seconds later I joined him, jogging lightly to catch up.
---
He brought me, after a good forty minutes or so of walking in and out of local train stations and
exiting at various stops that I hadn’t been to in a long while, to a small café that he had taken me
to in simpler, younger days. I knew my nose and cheeks were red before seeing my reflection in
the mirror partition that stood between the two seating sections of the place; Hayato robotically
requested a table for two of a waitress taken aback by his stiff demeanor, the girl quickly seating
us and leaving us with menus.
I was puzzled as to why he had chosen that place, of all the ones we had frequented in days past,
as the one where he would (assumedly) confront me over my recent behavior. His face gave me
no clues as to what he was thinking, nor his body; to say that I felt awkward and guilty and
perplexed all at once was an understatement, if that even makes sense. I shrugged off my coat,
shuddering as the warmth of the café enveloped my frozen skin. In a small, insane instant of
thought, my mind traveled back to that indelible heat that I had felt in Shimizu’s arms not an
hour ago—and I quickly squelched the thought, glad that the cold-induced redness of my cheeks
hid my blush expertly.
Yet the location was only one source of my befuddlement, seeing as I was, as the waitress had
been, entirely wary of Hayato’s longer-than-usual bout of depressed, passive-aggressive anger. I
couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him so withdrawn and cold; there was nothing childlike
about his ire, nor anything promising in his eyes. I was frightened by my lack of comprehension
at that moment, and I was so focused on trying to figure him out, in fact, that I forgot that I was
in a café at all.
“Ano, ojou-sama? What would you like?” (1)
I snapped wide awake from my temporary daze, staring first at the waitress, and then at Hayato,
rather blankly. With the first human expression that I had seen Hayato wear all day, he sighed
tiredly, taking my menu with his and handing it to the girl as he ordered for us both.
“She’ll have what I’m having,” he told her firmly, and she nodded unsurely, walking away with
a confused expression remaining on her features.
I turned to him in surprise at the brief lapse in frostiness on his part, though I was disappointed to
find that by the time I had focused my attentions back on him, he had reverted to his previous
state. After a duration of time in which I simply stared at him in consternation, he finally
returned my look, his eyes as desolate as a wintry desert. My heart went cold at the gaze he
forced upon me, and I was not comforted at all when the waitress returned with our identical
orders of strawberry shortcake—an odd choice given the bitter tension that existed between us
then.
With no warning, Hayato broke our silent exchange, picking up his small cake-fork and eating
his slice with all the nonchalance in the world, his long-sleeved red shirt crinkling as he bent
over his plate to get closer to his food. I picked up my own utensil, but with much more
uncertainty than he; I poked at the pink, frilly little cake, munching on the tiny bit that I had
forked off with little enthusiasm. I felt my throat constrict as swallowing took much more effort
than usual on the part of my anxious brain, the chewed-up cake traveling down my esophagus
like a lump of coal.
Things are getting  way  too weird.
I couldn’t stand that unfathomable silence after a point—my lips were dying to yell, scream, or
just say anything to him that would end all that nonsense. I felt prepared to do so, after a time of
delay; my mouth even parted so that sound would come out, though it was all to no avail.
“Aren’t you going to eat the rest of it?”
I stiffened in shock at the sound of his voice breaking through my wall of concentration, my head
unconsciously tilting downwards to observe the uneaten food in question. My fork was still
embedded (half-heartedly) within the cake’s inner layer, the whipped cream and three-quarters of
the slice just sitting there. I held the handle of the small fork loosely, though my grip quickly
intensified to the point that I nearly bent the utensil out of shape, my anger barely controlled.
“Stop this  right now, Hayato,” I seethed, eyeing him with thinly-veiled vitriol. “I’m tired of
these—these games.”
He only glared right back at me, his chilly demeanor waning in the wake of our conflict.
“And so am I,  Kaho.”
I leaned back in my chair at his counter, looking away as I pushed the cake and fork away from
me, scowling. I was being petulant—I knew that. But I hated being proved wrong, especially
after I had made such an unsuccessful attempt at being in the right.
“Look,” he whispered, his stolid attitude crumbling by the second, “I just wanted to find
someplace where we could talk.” His eyes, while still retaining some of their former ambiguity,
appeared to soften after he had said that, and I reacted in turn, my frame relaxing in the minutes
that followed his statement. I sighed lightly once my eyes met his again, though suspicion was
still working its way into my tone of voice.
“Why here, then?”
He paused, though not for long; with a small glance sideways, he returned to me, his look
meaningful.
“I’d hoped that you would remember something, being here,” he said quietly, though his
momentary sadness was quickly overtaken by the acidic strength of his continuation. “But I see
now that that was a lost cause from the very start.”
I reddened at his insinuation, and whether it was from anger or embarrassment, I didn’t know; I
could only continue to deny what he was saying rather than reveal what was imperative to keep
secret.
“Remember what?”
He narrowed his eyes in at me before scoffing, leaning back in his own chair. “You asking me
that just proves my point, Kaho.”
I glowered, my jaw tightening at his Shimizu-like temperament—the kind that I couldn’t stand.
“And what if I told you, Hayato,” I spat ferociously, “that I understood exactly what was going
on here—that I understood why you took me here—since the very first step that I took inside
this place?”
He looked somewhat surprised by that, no doubt; quickly afterwards, however, he concealed the
expression with one of disdain, leaning into the table with anger lit in his attractive irises.
“Then I’d say that you’re a liar.”
My hands balled into fists at his condescension, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes as I
found myself backed far, far into a corner. I couldn’t look at him then, my mind rattled by the
way he had treated me—the way he had talked to me—in that afternoon.
“Why does it have to be like this?” I asked in just above a murmur, my lip barely keeping from
trembling as my tear-glazed eyes stared at him. They didn’t ask for pity, nor for sympathy, and
he didn’t bow down to either of those base requests—instead, his countenance alternated
between being ireful and culpable for my apparent breakdown. He stared pointedly back at me,
his body releasing some of its tension in a signal of weariness; after a time, he replied.
“It doesn’t,” he whispered to me, though there was little sign of empathy in his
voice. “It  never had to be like this, Kaho.”
Tears started to dribble down my face, my reflexes taking over my will. “I know that,” I said
through small sobs, “I know that, I . . .” I couldn’t finish after that point, the choking strength of
my melancholy stopping me from going further. He watched my reaction with growing concern;
after all, he was Hayato, much as he was pretending to be someone else at that time. He
hesitantly reached across the table for my left hand, and after a moment of indecision, he began
to tenderly massage my wrist. I heard him shush me in the most hushing of tones, seeing as my
crying and our quiet yet intense altercation had attracted some of the other patrons’ and staff’s
attentions to ourselves; upon noticing this myself, I quieted down, though tears continued to
flow, uninhibited.
“Ano . . . daijoubu desu ka?” The manager of the café asked concernedly, and Hayato merely
nodded, patting my forearm to maintain a poorly-kept visage of calm. The older man nodded in
return, though, like the waitress before him, he looked back after he began to walk away,
confused by our situation.
Hayato continued to stroke my hand, though his movements grew slower as time passed on. My
tears abided as we sat there, my sniffling gradually dissipating into silence again. There was an
expression of neutrality on his face that I couldn’t discern—I waited for him to speak, not
knowing what to say myself.
“If you just . . . tell me what’s going on, then none of this will ever have to happen again,” he
told me assuredly, though my eyes averted his as I stifled a sarcastic reply.
I highly doubt that.
“I—” I paused, wanting to respond to his request adequately. “I just don’t know what to tell you,
Hayato. Lots has happened in the past few months—the past few years, really.” I smiled
ruefully, looking to the side so that I could avoid his prying gaze.
He was curious, no doubt; yet in his look there was a note of deep thoughtfulness—a look that
alerted me as to the consequence of his next question.
“Are you afraid of being honest with me?”
It was so painfully straightforward, and so like Hayato to ask of me. I bit my lip at first, not
wanting to say it, but all the same, I ended up doing it anyway.
“Sometimes . . . yes, I am.”
He looked disappointed in my answer, and I couldn’t blame him—if he had said anything even
remotely similar to that in the reverse situation, I probably would have made him out to be the
villain in my mind. But now, with the dilemma, as it were, being not in my favour, I could only
hope that he would find a way to forgive me. Of all people, he was the one person that I never
wanted to let down.
“You never used to be,” he murmured, looking away before meeting my stare again, his gaze
puzzled. “Is it because—because of that guy, that—” He paused, his face reddening before he
just barely finished his piece, his last words whispered.
“Because of Shimizu Jun?”
I tried desperately to keep my body from stiffening at the query, but to no avail. My frame froze
up in an instant, automatically giving Hayato a clue as to my real feelings on the matter. I felt my
right hand, having slid back onto my lap a while ago, clasp at the fabric of my jeans with a death-
like grip. With a tightened jaw, I responded, albeit with much resistance from every fibre of my
being.
“He—he’s part of the problem, you could say.”
I didn’t elaborate, but it seemed that I didn’t have to—he looked like he understood, even if it
was vaguely, what I was getting at. I sighed when he pored over my words for a while, staring at
him imploringly once I was courageous enough to do so. “But . . . it’s really me who’s at fault
here, Hayato. I—I let things get out of hand too easily, and I can’t blame anyone else for that.”
He was surprised by my sudden interjection into his thoughts, and I hoped desperately that
whatever suspicions he was fomenting in his own mind about Shimizu and I would disappear if I
willed it so. He considered my statement (and, in a sense, my apology) in total quiet again, as if
he were weighing each word that I had spoken with equal importance.
I felt ashamed as I waited for him to pass judgment on me—on us—and correspondingly my
cheeks burned in distress, wondering if my rashness hadn’t finally sealed my fate for the worse.
Yet all the while as I sat there before him, utterly vulnerable to his sharp eyes, flashes started to
run through my head. Flashes of memories from the past, of arguments, of tears, of enflamed
emotions, and—
Memories of passion
I swallowed uncomfortably at the last series of recollections that appeared in my mind’s eye;
alternately I saw my heated conflicts with Shimizu and our moments of mutual fulfillment meld
into one body of frighteningly vivid images, their potency clouding my memory. The dead
silence that filled the air around Hayato and me only amplified the sound of Shimizu’s shallow
breathing in my ear, the cold breeze blowing through the café reminding me of the warmth that
had embraced me only an hour before. My cheeks heated as the feelings of that time returned to
me, their intoxicating effects interrupted only by the sound of Hayato’s voice.
“What got out of hand, Kaho?”
I had barely heard his question, lost as I was in my own temporary bliss; when I did, however,
my blush intensified to a painful degree, and I couldn’t meet his eyes again.
“Everything.”
When he didn’t reply, I moved to reassure him, wanting then, more than ever before, for him to
understand. “But that doesn’t mean that I’ll have it continue like this,” I said quickly, clasping
his hand in mine again, almost urgently. “I promise, Hayato—I won’t leave you in the dark about
it anymore. I just . . .” I paused, holding his gaze with my own so that he understood the real
meaning of what I was trying, just trying to tell him.
“I just want your trust. I—I need your trust, Hayato,” I told him, my hand gripping his tighter.
“No one else’s matters to me.”
It was the truth—perhaps the only clear, concise one that I had said all day. He took notice,
slipping his hand from my grasp but still leaving it near mine on the table. After a moment of
hesitation, he touched mine briefly, a small smile on his lips.
“You’ve always had my trust, Kaho,” he said, though his expression saddened as he squeezed
my fist affectionately. “I just wonder if it’s you  that doesn’t trust me.”
Without waiting for me to answer, he stood, walking over to the register with the check that the
waitress had left us while we, probably, had been in one of our (many) bouts of silence that
afternoon. He paid for both of us, giving me a small smile before gesturing for me to exit with
him, which I complied with easily. Nevertheless, I felt sick at not being able to answer his rueful
remark—I wanted to deny it wholeheartedly, but, as he seemed to have figured out before me, I
was unable to do so.
I didn’t feel a bit comforted by the gloved hand that held my own as we walked out, side by side,
into the cold of the outside world—for though our feet were totally in sync, our hearts were not.
------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “Umm, Miss?”
Title of chapter (translated): Detachment
Author’s Note: Soooooooo sorry for the delay!! I started writing this chapter waaaaaay too late
in the game, so I had to take a couple more days than usual to make up for the lost time.
Anyway, it’s not the longest chapter ever—sorry for that—but the next one will def. make up for
this one’s shortness, as much will have to be covered in terms of K/S territory (yes, I am giving
them a shipper abbreviation…hahaha) next time around. Hope you all liked it anyhow!
CHAPTER 17 PREVIEW:
After their tentative and rather unsuccessful attempt at repairing their friendship, Kaho decides
that she cannot keep deceiving Hayato by meeting with Shimizu—so she tries again to end their
affairs, but to what end? Can Kaho give up the instant gratification of physical relations with
Shimizu for an unrequited, platonic one with Hayato?
 
 
Chapter 17: Kimama
 
 
Had it all been just . . . pretense?
That was the one question I was left with the following day as I walked with Hayato to the train
station as per usual, my eyes occasionally darting to the side to observe his mannerisms after our
fairly, well . . . uncomfortable conversation the afternoon previous. He seemed impervious to my
scrutiny, his expression, while still containing traces of his former tenseness, having relaxed to
the point where it would seem that nothing had happened at all.
I, unfortunately, could not retain such a calm attitude—not when I remembered the peculiar
toughness with which he had addressed me just a day earlier, and especially not when I recalled
to mind his last few words to me.
“I just wonder if it’s you that doesn’t trust me.”
I frowned at the statement, altogether perturbed by everything that had been said that afternoon.
When I thought about our exchange with a clearer head, it was easy to see the holes and pitfalls
in our shared information; where I had been vague and, perhaps, intentionally misleading, he had
responded with even less specifics, barely revealing to me what he knew or, more importantly,
howmuch he knew. For all I could tell, Hayato had indeed made the connection between Shimizu
and I in his own head—that much was obvious—but beyond that, I knew nothing. And, come to
think of it, I had revealed to him just as little as I had in the past few months.
Altogether, it hadn’t been a very honest conversation, I suppose.
But once I had overcome my usual feeling of self-loathing over being so over-dramatic and
disingenuous on that day, I began to ponder about Hayato’s actions. Had he been fair at all? Did
that little act of his really give him anything that he wanted besides a rather ambiguous
confession on my part? And by being discreet in his knowledge of what was really going on, had
he really been any more honest than me?
No,  I thought with narrowed eyes, definitely not.
He threw me a questioning look as my shoulders hunched in thought, his eyebrow perking up.
“Doushitano, Kaho?”
I quickly looked at him before returning my eyes to the train tracks in front of us, my gaze hard.
“Betsu ni.”
I heard him sigh at my nondescript answer, his eyes leaving my figure. “Maa ne,” (1) he said
softly, though his tone only managed to aggravate my already on-edge mind. I glowered for the
rest of our trip until we had reached the school, my mood soured by his seemingly impenetrable
nonchalance.
His fans, of course, noticed the inimitable quiet between Hayato and I; as I stared out the
window of 1-D with a glare set in my brow and a frown stitched into my lips, they barraged me
with a wall of inquiries, Hayato being out of the room to talk to some of the other members of
his basketball club.
“Watanabe-san—what happened between you and Wakamura-kun?”
I glanced at the girl disinterestedly, noting, absentmindedly, that she was a lower member in the
“Wakamura-kun Fan Club” hierarchy and thus not usually permitted to ask questions of me, the
great demon Watanabe. Despite the unnecessary details that popped into my mind once I saw
her, though, I still answered (albeit as unenthusiastically as I possibly could).
“Nandemo nai.”
The girl appeared displeased by my reply, as I knew she would be, but she was shoved aside by
her “superiors” in the club, the highest and most irritating of which, Endo Ai, was quick to
continue the assault.
“Sou desu ka, Watanabe-san? But he seems so . . . so quiet today,” she said sadly, though the
sickening sweetness of her tone was enough to make me gag. I just barely managed to contain
my scowl as I turned to her, the other members of Endo’s gang stepping back in fear of my
retribution.
Endo, however, stood her ground with that same, insufferable smirk playing on her lips—in a
way, it almost reminded me of Shimizu’s, save for the fact that hers was filled with malice and
promises of wounds to be inflicted upon her enemies. Unluckily for me, I happened to be the
biggest “obstacle” in her way of becoming Hayato’s kanojo (2)—the thought was laughable,
obviously, but her obsequious gestures and mannerisms towards me only indicated the cruelness
of her intentions. I humored her, but only for a moment.
“You should go ask him what’s wrong then, ne?” I answered with a sugar-coated voice, the
most affected smile I had ever worn breaking out onto my lips as I watched Endo recoil slightly
from my person, perhaps surprised by my rebuttal. After a second of shocked silence, however,
she only smiled back, eyeing me with poorly-disguised spite.
“Sou desu! Minna, let’s go and find Wakamura-kun!” And with an excited outburst of
twittering and squealing from her group, Endo grinned triumphantly at me, herding out the sheep
from the room and flocking towards Hayato in the next room over.
I almost felt bad for sending them to him—almost. Once I remembered the ire that had been
building up within me since that morning, though, my small tinge of guilt disappeared, having
been replaced by anger mired in suspicion. I was too skeptical of Hayato’s moodiness to treat it
seriously, and thus, when he returned to 1-D with an exasperated expression on his handsome
face from dealing with his fangirls, I merely glanced at him in acknowledgment.
He looked perturbed by my lack of attention, eyeing me curiously, but he, apparently, was in no
better frame of mind to question my actions. I supposed that, in the back of that head of his, he
felt some of what I did in regards to what had occurred the day before.What he felt exactly was
beyond me, but I could guess well enough.
You didn’t tell me anything, Kaho.
I scoffed at the imagined words, having accused myself with that same phrase often enough to
know when Hayato was doing so without saying a thing. He glanced at me from the corner of his
eye when he felt my gaze settle on him, though I quickly turned away, pretending that I hadn’t
been staring. It was a delicate dance, then, between us; both of us were unwilling to say a word
to the other about what had happened, and both of us realized that whatever temporary truce we
had put up when our hands were entwined had dissolved over the course of the morning’s
classes.
---
“Watanabe? Come see me after class.”
My eyes perked up just slightly at Morioka’s command, my brain having entirely tuned out his
lecture in favor of thinking about . . . well, nothing really. I only stared out the window,
effectively ignoring the world around me. To think of it, I was surprised that he hadn’t said
anything earlier—the old man usually noticed daydreamers like me in a second during class and
called us out for it. I felt my brow lift in surprise when I saw his vision focus on me narrowly,
and unconsciously I swallowed hard in latent anxiety.
“Hai, Morioka-sensei.”
My classmates watched the exchange in total silence, their stares fixed on me in dulled curiosity.
I disregarded their accusing eyes, my attention returning to the front of the class for fear that
Morioka would say something else to catch me off-guard. My gaze stayed there the rest of the
time, and I waited, wondering.
---
“I’m a little worried about you lately, Watanabe,” Morioka said as he stroked his stubbly chin,
reclining comfortably in his swivel chair in the main teacher’s office. I resisted the urge to roll
my eyes at the undertone of distaste that belied everything that he said to me, remaining silent so
that he could continue the unfortunate conversation. “Your grade in my class—in all your
classes, really—has been declining as of late. And, well,” he said, eyeing me with genuine
concern, “since you’re one of the best students in your class, I have to wonder as to why it’s
dropping as quickly as it is.”
I reddened lightly at the open question, not knowing where to begin—it wasn’t as though I
hadn’t noticed my lack of stellar marks as of late myself, but since when did I have to explain it
to him? Granted, Morioka was my teacher, but I had enough problems without him getting on
my back about my grades! I looked to the side guiltily, unable to hide the culpability written all
over my features. If anyone had noticed my grades dropping, it was me—I had been such a
stickler for high marks ever since primary school, but with recent events being as they were . . . it
was hard to retain a good academic standing when I was entangled in so many personal “issues.”
“Watanabe?” Morioka addressed me again, his eyes becoming more serious as he spoke,
“Really, if you’re having any kind of problems—family, social, personal, whatever—you can tell
me, or the school counselor. We’re here to help.”
I felt my brow furrow instinctively at his sympathetic tone, reviling it entirely. “There’s nothing
wrong,” I nearly spat, my arms crossing suddenly as my temperament darkened. “Daijoubu.”
Morioka glared at me then, rightly so—I was being impetuous to authority, and I deserved to be
reprimanded for my childishness. But his stare was softer after a moment, perhaps realizing that
my angry reply was out of real ire, not spite. He sighed after a minute in silence, and I finally
looked his way again.
“Even so,” he began purposefully, leaning forward in his chair, “I know that you and I both want
to see your grades improve.” He eyed me meaningfully, and while my chin was raised slightly in
defiance, I felt myself acquiesce to that remark. “And whether you do that through self-study,
tutoring, or counseling—just know that there are always people around who are able and willing
to listen.”
I kept my lip from quivering at that last word, spoken with such gravity as it was; as I left the
teacher’s office with a small bow, I realized that finding anyone that would listen, really listen,
was much too hard to come by in those days. In fact, when I remembered the one person that I
knew would listen—Hayato—I quickly felt my spirits sink at the thought, knowing that I
didn’t want  him to listen to everything that I needed, desperately needed to tell him.
But you have Shimizu.
My face crimsoned at the idea, preposterous as it was; I had sort of come to terms with it before,
understanding that, as thick-headed as he could be, Shimizu indeed would be a willing listener if
I gave him the chance to be one. But I internalized the temptation to spill everything,
determining that, instead, telling him anything more than I had already would only cause me
more of the same problems that were bringing my grades down. I could hardly trust myself
anymore, let alone an outsider like Shimizu; I swallowed uncomfortably once I reached 1-D
again, sitting back down at my seat awkwardly as my lunch-eating classmates eyed me with
inane interest.
Hayato took notice of my flushed cheeks and tense expression as soon as I walked through the
door, and he acted quickly, sitting in his usual place in front of me and abandoning his half-eaten
bento.
“Kaho . . . what did Morioka-sensei say to you?”
I could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on me, and so I replied as quietly as was humanly
possible, leaning in closer to conceal my words. “He just—” I paused, resolving that at the very
least, I could tell him about that. “He just wanted to make sure that I was keeping up with my
work—I guess I’m more distracted in his class than I thought I was, ne?”
So much for telling him the truth.
Hayato looked skeptical at the answer, his brow furrowed in concern.
“It seemed like it was more serious than that, from the way he called you out in class.”
My blush deepened at the remark, and I looked away briefly, immediately cluing him in as to
what my next lie would be.
“Well, that’s Morioka for you, ne? Majime,” (3) I laughed despite the utter silence that I was
met on his side, and my false amusement quickly withered, all hope of convincing him to give up
the topic seemingly lost. I felt myself pout lightly, turning away again. “Maa ne indeed.”
He seemed a little aggravated at that last phrase—Good, I thought with an inward, smug
expression, let him get pissed off. Whatever it takes to get him off my back.
As terrible as the thought sounded in my head, I was getting edgier by the second, and I was sure
that my narrowing eyes were outward proof of that.
“Why are you being so bitter, Kaho?”
I was startled by the question—he had said it more quietly than before, trying to detract attention
away from our exchange (and not doing that great of a job, at that). The redness that had burned
in my features for a while then died down a little, and my frown softened, my brow un-furrowing
purely out of blank surprise.
“Wakaranai.”
I suppose I said it so simply that I annoyed Hayato more than words could describe; in any case,
his face became a near-scowl, his stare darkening.
“‘Wakaranai,’ ne?” he asked spitefully before leaning back in his seat, his arms crossing as he
did so. “Well, at least you’re beinghonest with me.”
My gaze tightened almost instantaneously at the implications of his comment, suddenly standing
from my chair in a burst of anger that I had been holding back since that morning. “Don’t act like
you have nothing to hide, Hayato,” I hissed acridly, directing the strongest glare I had conjured
in a long while right at him, “and don’t expect me to tell you anything when you tell me just as
little.”
I barely kept from storming out of the room at that point—if I had been anywhere else besides
school, I most certainly would have, but at that time, with the fixed attentions of everyone in
class on me, the best I could do was excuse myself and go to the bathroom, containing the bulk
of my rage for the moment.
---
The bathroom was a scarily quiet place as I stood there, bracing myself over a sink as I peered
into the drain, contemplating quite seriously the ramifications of what I had said. My head felt
heavy as I weighed my choice of words in my mind; had I gone too far again in my anger? I
knew I had said things then that I hadn’t dared to in the past—things that, quite frankly, were
better left unsaid for the most part.
Didn’t you mean every word of it, though?
The question was unpleasant though it reeked of truth, and I looked up into the mirror, my hands
still gripping the edges of the sink as though my life depended on it. Even if I did mean it, I
thought with a furrowed brow, there had to be a better way of saying it.
My thoughts were interrupted by the door the bathroom opening, Endo and her cronies stepping
through with heavy steps. Yet there expressions were gloomy, and I saw little humor even on
Endo’s sunny face as she eyed me, her minions surrounding me where I was. I didn’t turn,
watching their movements through the reflection in the mirror with narrow-eyed interest.
I wasn’t intimidated by them, to say the least.
All their glares and scowls and frowns melded into one mass of pouty teenage displeasure, one
that I would have casually laughed at had they not all been directed at me (and had I not been in
such a terrible mood myself). Endo, however, showed me a blithe expression after coming in
with such hatred in her eyes, and I knew that the change only meant that the worst was to come.
“Watanabe-chan,” she said lightly, emphasizing the suffix with painstaking precision, “that was
rather mean of you, ne?”
I looked away from her in the mirror, turning on the faucet and gently washing my hands. Her
group stared at me with such detestation as I had not seen in a long while, and it almost made me
smile.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean, Endo-san.”
Endo’s smile disappeared, replaced by a frightful glower that illustrated her true nature
brilliantly. I would have marveled at the revealing look, but instead I only paused as the water
ran over my stilled hands, waiting for whatever ridiculous thing she was about to say next.
“Don’t play dumb, Watanabe,” she warned me through her clenched fists and tightened jaw, and
there was nothing but menace written across her features. I only smiled sweetly at her words,
returning them swiftly.
“Why would I? That’s your job, isn’t it?”
The threat that rested in my eyes did not escape her as I stared her down through the mirror,
terminating any possibility of Endo suddenly lashing out and hitting me, or, worse, her entire
posse ganging up on me at once. I knew as I turned around, meeting Endo’s gaze with cold,
steely resolve, that she would not dare to touch me—regardless of my current conflict with
Hayato, she knew that he wouldn’t like it if his “fan club” laid a hand on me. I understood,
looking into her venomous blue irises, that she wasn’t afraid of me—she never had been, and she
never would be. It was only her little cult following that truly felt endangered by my person, and
without them, she was essentially nothing: a mere figurehead for a pointless cause.
I parted the crowd in the bathroom simply by walking back to the door and exiting, the utter
silence surrounding me as I took my leave reassuring me a little. I had to take the walk back to
class, though; that, if anything, slowed my steps to a near-trudge right up until I entered 1-D
again, holding my head up high (if only for appearances).
Hayato saw my every move, though he was only looking out the corner of his eye; otherwise, his
vision was directed ahead at the chalkboard, refusing to meet mine. His cheeks were pinked—I
couldn’t say why, but it mildly intrigued me as I took my own seat, trying not to glance at him
out of latent interest. He was obviously poring over what I had said to him before I left the room
last, and for that, I was glad. I mean, I hadn’t intended to be as harsh as I sounded then, but I
supposed that my bitter words had carried out their intended purpose.
I can’t be the only one with secrets.
Of course, I assumed that I knew his biggest secrets already, and had acted so self-righteously in
order to test his own sense of honesty when concerning me, his best friend. I knew that I wasn’t
being straight with him in any respect, but at least I was going to do something about it within
the next few hours; what about him? Had he ever been planning on telling me that he liked guys?
That he liked Shimizu?
Probably not.
And I didn’t necessarily blame him for not wanting to tell me those things—really, if I were him,
I would probably internalize those feelings as well. But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t putting a
double-standard on me, or that he was being unfair in asking me things that he wouldn’t tell me
himself.
Then again, I thought morosely, if he told me that he kissed a girl, would I believe him?
I almost snorted as my mind responded with a resounding “no,” turning my thoughts from the
awful ideas that my mind was spinning. I was probably worrying too much over my own words,
like usual, and just needed to calm down and let Hayato sort out what I had said himself.
After all, I had other matters to take care of before the day was up.
---
I came to 2-A around 5:00 that afternoon, expecting Shimizu there as he always was, but all that
greeted me was an empty room, and suddenly I was fairly anxious at the idea that, seeing as the
gymnasium was on the first floor, I would run into Hayato during the last few minutes of his
basketball club’s practice. Granted, the gym was on the other side of the school, but the idea was
scary enough to make me swallow hard. I closed the door to the room as quietly I could,
prepared to breathe the sigh of relief that I had been saving until then.
“Watanabe?”
The breath got caught in my throat as I froze, staring up at Shimizu as a frightened woodland
animal would.
There were sweat stains all over his body—track practice, I assumed—and he was panting
slightly even as he observed my shocked frame, sweat beading his forehead and the tips of his
bangs. He stared back at me confusedly, his messy dark brown hair swaying lightly as he tilted
his head my way curiously.
“Doushitano?”
It was the second time I had been asked that on that day; unlike the first time, however, I was
fairly unprepared to answer the query, looking to the side demurely after what seemed like an
eternity of discomfort.
“Can we talk inside?”
He nodded without really understanding where I was going with the conversation, carrying his
books and bag inside while I shut the door behind us, careful that there was no one nearby that
would spot me going into the room with him (though the possibility of there being anyone was
unlikely by that time after school). After I was sufficiently assured that no one had seen
anything, I finally calmed down enough to face him seriously.
“I need to sort some things out . . . with you,” I added hesitantly at the end, resolve setting in as I
met his gaze. He seemed to catch my meaning, but he asked anyway.
“Things?” He looked somewhat skeptical of what my statement had implied, and I reddened in
embarrassment, losing in my attempt to maintain a cool visage.
“Don’t ask me that, Shimizu,” I murmured, staring at him pointedly, “not when you know what I
mean.”
A clear sheen of understanding passed over his eyes, and he set down his bag and textbooks
nearby as he leaned against a desk, his arms tense.
“Ah. Sou ka.”
A faint blush spread over his own cheeks at the reminder of yesterday’s “events,” as it were,
though my own quickly faded upon seeing his. I had come with an entirely unpleasant objective
in mind, and I’d be damned if a little bit of rouge was going to distract me from my goal.
“I just wanted you to know that this is as far as it goes.”
He turned to me, his flush departing as my words sunk in. His attractive brow knit in suspicion,
he propped himself up off the edge of the desk, walking a few steps closer to me. He stopped
short of coming face-to-face, though, crossing his arms and looking pensive for a while. Then,
once he had fully realized what I meant, he uncrossed his arms, his eyes tightening.
“You’re trying to end it.”
I shook my head with the most imperceptible of motions, staring at him pointedly.
“Iie, Shimizu. I am ending it.”
He wasn’t as stunned by my reply as before—I suspected that that was due, in large part, to the
fact that he had heard the same thing not a day earlier. His eyes told me that he didn’t believe
me, which didn’t surprise me in the least; nevertheless, I needed to persevere this time. Not only
for myself, but for Hayato.
“Is it really that easy for you?”
I was taken off-guard by the question, and quickly turned away, my face rouging despite my best
efforts to remain emotionless. I refused to answer his query, though he pressed further, trying to
get a rise out of me.
“Answer me, Watanabe.”
I only reddened more, stubbornly remaining silent as I pursed my lips, my arms crossing
themselves. Shimizu glared at me, then sighed, stepping back as he slipped his bag over his
shoulder, settling his books in his arms.
“Who am I kidding?” he asked himself with a cold laugh, “and to think that you were ever
interested! Now that’s funny, ne?”
There was real sadness resting beneath his cruel words, and I felt my heart clench in response.
My resolve, as usual, was weakening—but why? How did I always end up right back at square
one with Shimizu, with nothing begun and nothing ended? I watched his figure as it slowly
stalked towards the door of 2-A, remembering my body doing the same just the day before.
But as I watched him rest his fingers against the slot in the door—and as I recalled my own hand
touching that same place—something snapped inside of me.
“Chigau!”  (4)
He stopped abruptly, his hand freezing in place on the door. His surprised features met mine not
a moment later, his entire body following the motion of his head.
I put my face in the palm of my hand, the red spreading far too quickly for my liking. I marveled
at my own instability, really—since when had I been such a sop? I hated being so emotional, so
unbalanced, so . . . so . . . female. Hadn’t I prided myself on cutting people off as a method of
self-defense?
“I—I wasn't, I mean, I’m just—”
He said nothing at my rambling, only moving closer, dropping his bag and books on a desk along
the way. I watched his approach with clouded eyes, struggling with the why’s and how’s that had
taken me to that point. Reason, it seemed, had not been a strong suit of mine, and that was the
only explanation I could consciously offer myself to excuse whatever nonsense I had just
spoken.
But innately, I knew what had caused me to speak.
He’s offering you what you’ve always wanted.
And what was it that I wanted?
More than what Hayato has to offer.
I didn’t feel the tears coming that time, and for that, at least, I was glad; instead, I felt as though I
had achieved a certain degree of clarity on the issue for the first time. I felt my heart relax, the
tension in it slowly dissipating as my eyes met his again, his steps having drawn him ever closer
to me in the minutes following my outburst. Though I felt pain upon acknowledging, for the
millionth time, the impossibility of Hayato ever being able to fulfill my most primal desires, I
felt an even stronger emotion—passion—embrace me in its seductive power.
I had felt it before in Shimizu’s arms, but perhaps, at the time, I hadn’t fully understood what it
was that had drawn me to him so strongly. It wasn’t simply his potent masculinity or his
blatantly attractive features—it had to be something more, and as I looked at him with rosy
cheeks, I knew.
He feels something for you—something beyond friendship.
I felt my very body warm at the fact, letting him rest his fingers against the burning skin of my
face. Indeed, I was so calmed by the mere idea that he liked me that I let my guard down,
relishing the feeling that, to him, I was special.
“Shimizu.”
It was a clear gesture of permission for him to go further, and, strangely enough, I didn’t regret
saying it later. I was too caught up in the moment of being there, with him, to wonder at my
constant reversals in opinion. There had always been so much at stake in getting involved with
Shimizu—and in the past, I had been too aware of all that I could lose to act on my true feelings.
But what had held me back from being true to myself until the day before, in that same room?
And even then, what had spurred me on to try and reject his attentions again that afternoon—
what had made me stop him when he had seemingly granted my wishes and was about to leave?
Selfishness.
I acknowledged it without admitting it aloud; when I felt both his hands hold my face in their
palms gently, his thumbs stroking my dry cheeks tenderly, I only felt my that same self-interest
that had stifled my previous efforts swell within me. Unable to control it, I felt my egoism turn to
lust, and I closed the space between mine and Shimizu’s lips.
I want him.
--------------
Japanese Terms:
1 “Really, now.”
2 girlfriend
3 serious
4 “You’re wrong!”
Title of chapter (translated): Selfishness
Author’s Note: Again, a bit of a delay in delivering this chapter, but as you can tell—it was a
rather long one! I just couldn’t stop after I got going . . . I knew that I wanted to end it on a K/S
note, even if it ended up being one that might disappoint some of you. I’ve been waiting to get to
this chapter so that some REAL drama can start happening now; not to say that the whole story
hasn’t been one huge vat of it already, but things are going to get even more complicated, I
assure you. Endo’s re-appearance has significance—of what kind, I can’t say—but keep on the
lookout for her in the coming chapters (and no, I’m not going to make her into some kind
of shoujo villain—if you couldn’t already tell from all of my other characters, none of them
exactly play into the obvious stereotypes).
CHAPTER 18 PREVIEW:
Giving into Shimizu of her own free will again leads Kaho to an important question: Does she
still love Hayato? And if so, then why does she feel more comfortable with Shimizu? Plus: what
happens when Kaho witnesses yet another clash between Shimizu and his family?
 
 
 
Chapter 18: Uso
 
 
By the time I realized how far we had gone, Shimizu and I were locked in a fairly compromising
embrace. His hand ran over the fabric of the blouse that covered my chest, his fingers gently
unbuttoning it as his lips moved to plant another brazen mark of his affection on the naked crook
of my neck. I only stared at my discarded blazer hanging off the side of the desk next to me,
panting.
This is wrong.
I wrapped my arms tighter around his back, my legs, out of animal instinct, unconsciously
drawing his body closer to mine.
This is  wrong.
I closed my eyes when his warm fingers brushed against the bare skin of my abdomen, my
stomach fluttering at the thought that, in only a few seconds, he would remove my blouse
entirely from my torso.
This is wro—
Suddenly, I felt him pause above me, his lips leaving my neck. I felt colder for lack of his
masculine mouth caressing that spot, my eyes opening to look up at him in confusion. He gazed
down at me with the same expression, though when our eyes met, his bemusement quickly faded.
I parted my swollen lips to speak, a question inevitably leaving them as we looked at each other
in silence.
“Doushitano?”
He stood tall from where he had formerly been leaning over my body, some sadness mixing with
the overall expression of ruefulness that he wore then.
“You’re crying, Watanabe.”
I blinked in blank incomprehension, bringing an involuntarily trembling hand to touch my
unexpectedly tear-streaked cheekbones. When I pulled my fingers away, I stared in surprise at
the slowly dissolving water that rested on their tips, suddenly feeling that same liquid pouring
down my face.
“D—doushite?” I asked myself in a whisper, my jaw tightening as the tears continued to stream
forth without pause. I looked up at Shimizu from where I was sitting crookedly atop the desk,
sure that he would be angry with me.
Instead, he only seemed . . . rueful, genuine pain striking his handsome features and scarring his
formerly affectionate cocoa eyes. I furrowed my brow in confusion at the expression, tears still
running down my cheeks. He looked askance, perhaps to distance himself further from me.
“You’re still thinking of—of him.”
I felt my chin drop at Shimizu’s assertion, chilling as it was in its exactness. There was no point
in denying it, at least; before even asking myself aloud as I had a moment earlier, I had known
why. And, chagrined as I was to admit it, Shimizu had said what I could not.
You still love him, don’t you?
The tears only increased in their flow as that thought crossed my mind, and I was glad, then, for
Shimizu’s silence and his distance. I didn’t want him to see me like this, to comfort me, to
empathize with me—that was what I relied on Hayato for, after all.
“I think, I think—” I cut myself off before I rambled on between my quivering sobs, “I need to
be by myself for a while.”
He only nodded, and I wondered if he really understood. I hoped that he didn’t feel toyed with,
or played; what had existed in those few moments before my breakdown had been real when few
else was anymore. Eyeing me with carefully guised concern, he held the slot in the door for a
minute, perhaps unsure of whether or not I had really been serious in asking him to leave. But
upon seeing my grave and morose gaze meet his, he swallowed, sliding open the door and
closing it behind him with one swift movement.
---
I spent much of the rest of the afternoon pacing the school, the streets, my own home—a queer
display to observers, I’m sure—with only the memory of seeing my tears ruining an otherwise
memorable (if short-lived) afternoon of passion. I wondered at what had made me think
of him  even at the last second—wondered at the very idea that I was still attached to the great
ideal of him in my mind that, apparently, existed even then.
But were you really thinking about him?
It occurred to me, as I paced up and down the halls of my home, that I hadn’t
actually thought about Hayato until Shimizu had mentioned it—indeed, I hadn’t been thinking
about anything at all, and if I had, the feelings of that time were difficult to resurrect. It was as
though my mind had buried all conscious thought of him in that moment, resisting the temptation
to run back to him when my own uncertainty kicked in.
Then . . . had it been subconscious?
The suggestion scared me more than I could possibly express; if it were true, then it meant that I
had yet to move on from him—toseparate myself from him. But how could that be so? I had
been so sure at the café of my own feelings being stamped out, and yet . . . perhaps my lustful
meetings with Shimizu had sparked my old sentiments anew. In fact, when I forced myself to
remember what had been going on inside my own head during that afternoon, I managed to
summon one phrase from the recesses.
This is wrong.
Why did I say that? Why, when I had been so desirous of Shimizu’s company, of his warmth and
strength and affections, had I branded our small affair as such? Why was it wrong to feel good?
Because he’s not Hayato.
The silent reply came so quickly that I had to sit down to keep from tensing too much, holding
my head in my palm as if I were tired from a long day’s work. I stared at the digital clock sitting
atop my desk with glistening eyes, not near crying, but not wholly tear-free either. The silence of
my house, its quietude reflecting the fact that my mother hadn’t come home yet from work, was
rather eerie in that moment.
I simply couldn’t understand the contradictoriness that existed between my head and my heart;
whereas my head absolutely declared myself free from the chains that bound me to Hayato, my
heart only made them tighter, refusing to let go. What, then, did my conscious mind trust more?
The primal brain that wanted Shimizu, or the hopeless romantic, unreasonable heart that
demanded Hayato’s imaginary love for me in return?
Truthfully, I felt that neither was being realistic; in either case, I would surely become a social
pariah, especially if I decided to continue my strange relationship with Shimizu. He had just as
many, if not more  girls fawning over him than Hayato, and being caught with him would surely
be the end of me. At least with Hayato, I had reason to feel somewhat secure in my position as
his best friend; with Shimizu, there was nothing to keep me from being ostracized completely, if
not attacked  by the more ruthless of the fan girls at school.
You have to choose.
I frowned at the implications of that statement, not liking the idea that I was somehow two-
timing either one of them. Firstly, I was in no way associated with Hayato in that manner, and
with regards to Shimizu—
With regards to Shimizu.
I couldn’t think of what I had meant to say then, reddening as my thoughts inevitably traced the
memories of mine and Shimizu’s strange, sometimes bizarre history together. From despising
him to accepting the idea of him liking me to sharing what had been my first deep kiss with him,
it had been odd in all respects. I marveled at my lack of foresight when it came to him; I should
have known that getting involved with him in any way would lead to this kind of bullshit, but I
had ignored all the warning bells that had gone off in my head.
And did I even like him? That was the one question that, in the past, I had felt didn’t merit an
honest answer. Even then, as I sat on my bed in contemplation, I was convinced of my non-
feelings for Shimizu. I hadn’t once suspected myself of being attached to him in any other way
than that of lustful necessity, and though the circumstances were as they were then, I still saw no
reason to investigate further into a matter I thought to be decided upon.
Hayato, on the other hand, was a whole other beast of an issue. The constant, indefatigable query
of do you or don’t you? laid heavily upon my conscience, its resonance calling into question my
moral character itself. There seemed to be no viable method of escaping it, but . . . somehow, I
knew that there was. The route wasn’t favorable nor easy, and neither was it pleasant, but I had
prolonged following it to the point that not going down it then seemed more selfish and stupid
than ever. I felt more determined than I had in a long while as my back settled down on the
mattress, my eyes closing for the first time since the night before.
Tomorrow it is, then.
---
I went through the daily motions of class and lunch and the usual bullshit the next day at school,
waiting for the day to simply end; Hayato and I hadn’t spoken to each other at all since the day
before, nor had he come to pick me up that morning for school. It had given me a sensation of
intense remorse to not see his handsome face glowing at me under the early morning sunlight
outside my door, but at the same time I knew that it had to happen sometime or another.
“All right, class is over. You’re all dismissed.”
Everyone rose simultaneously, bowing quickly in unison and saying the perfunctory thanks
before rushing out the door for their various activities and the like. I was caught off-guard by the
announcement, never having noticed the rather loud ring of the last bell of the day. I rose last of
all, earning some strange looks from my departing classmates as I lightly crimsoned out of
situational embarrassment. I gathered my belongings, trying to attract as little attention to myself
as possible before I made my move.
But fate (or whatever higher power there may be) intervened in that moment; Hayato’s
basketball teammates barreled into the room unceremoniously, each wearing a wild grin that
befitted their uncouth natures. I held back from sneering at them in pure contempt, holding
towards them, I suppose, the same hate that Endo held for me.
“Oi, Wakamoto! Let’s go to the game center—Higa got a goukon (1) set up for us,” said a
teammate that I didn’t recognize (nor cared to recognize), his grin widening when Hayato looked
surprised by the remark.
“Eh? I don’t know about that . . .” he trailed off, and his teammates all gave one collective groan
at his indecisiveness. He looked nonchalantly at them, eyeing his tie disinterestedly. “I’ll play a
little with you guys at the game center, but count me out for the goukon.”
I almost sighed in relief upon hearing him say that, but my momentary peace was cut short by
Fuwa, that same asshole that Hayato had told off months earlier.
“Oh come on, Wakamoto! If you don’t come we’ll be one guy short! And I’m tellin’ ya,” he said
with a wink, nudging Hayato cleverly, “the girls Higa found us are damn hot.”
Hayato paused inexplicably at that point; I gazed at him with bated breath, wanting him to just
say something. Perhaps sensing my anxiety, he glanced in my direction, and I was a little
thankful that I wasn’t the only one in the room besides him and his mates. I reddened at his stare,
but he redirected it soon enough, shocking me a little with the sharpness of his retraction.
“All right. I’ll go.”
His teammates whooped at the acquiescence, all of them taking turns at slapping him heartily on
the back and laughing raucously at the miracle that had just occurred before their eyes. I, for one,
felt my knees go a little weak; I sat atop my desk with a blanched face, my eyes staring down at
the floor before slowly rising to see if what my ears had heard could really be confirmed with my
sight.
Yet instead of meeting Hayato’s gaze, as I had half-hoped to then, I only saw Fuwa smirking at
me in much the same manner as Shimizu had in past months. Obviously, he had noticed
Hayato’s quick look my way and his obvious rejection of my company in favor of some goukon,
and he was enjoying every second of my distress. I only looked back at him with eyes dimmed
by disbelief and sadness, not feeling up to the challenge of fighting fire with fire.
I only wanted to tell him the truth.
I kept from crying, just barely—with little determination, I left the room after Hayato and his
“friends” had gone, going towards someplace that I could find respite from that afternoon.
---
It was pure coincidence that my mother called me and asked me to pick something up for her at
Morimoto’s while I was walking blankly through the store’s aisles later that day, though the
occasion did give me some kind of purpose while being there. Once I found the item, I stared at
it for what seemed like hours; only the faint sensation of being tapped on the shoulder awoke me,
and even then I moved aside as if possessed by a spirit of lassitude.
Why had I even come there in the first place?
Of course, that was easy enough to answer—I had come looking, or at least hoping for Shimizu,
though truthfully I had no idea when his work hours were, nor, after some point in my walking,
if he even worked there at all. A light buzzing sound began to ring in my head, perhaps caused
by the knowledge that whatever had happened in the classroom earlier that day had drained me
of my last scrap of courage for the day.
“Ah, Akira! Did you see a green bag around he—”
I looked up drearily at the sound of a familiar voice near the registers, my tired eyes meeting
Shimizu’s eternally surprised ones. I couldn’t blame him for his shock—after all, it was the third
time that I had caught him off-guard with my unexpected visits to his workplace.
“Ah, ano, gomen, Akira—would you excuse me for a minute?”
He walked towards me in a more straightforward manner than he had in a while, touching my
shoulder lightly in concern.
“Wa—Watanabe? Daijoubu?”
I gave him a slightly questioning look, eyeing the registers behind him. “Don’t you have work
now?”
He shook his head, letting go of me as he cocked his head to the side, regarding me curiously.
“I had track practice until late today, so I couldn’t work normal hours.”
I nodded briefly at the response, internally grateful for the free time that was generated by the
lack of work. But then I furrowed my brow, ignoring the dull pain I felt from tensing my face
muscles in such a way.
“Why are you here, then?”
He blushed a little self-consciously at the question, crossing his arms. “I—I thought I might have
forgotten something here.” Taking a small pause out of embarrassment, he then eyed me with the
same concern as before, his features softening. “What about you, Watanabe? Why are you here?”
My temporarily distracted mood became somber again, and I casted my eyes away from his,
glancing at the bags of veggie chips on the shelf nearby. “As stupid as this sounds, I . . . I really
don’t know.”
He looked at me worriedly then, gently tipping my chin towards him so that I could look into his
eyes as he did into mine. I rouged at his expression and his touch, prevented from turning away
in that moment. With little ornamentation to his phrasing, he asked the one thing I hadn’t ever
wanted him to ask.
“Is it about him?”
My lower lip trembled as my eyes fluttered shut in pain, nodding with the smallest of movements
as I held back all the tears that threatened to explode out from the corners of my eyes. Shimizu
swallowed hard, perhaps in jealousy; he gripped my shoulder afterwards, that being the only
gesture he could show to me as he resisted any public displays of affection towards me.
“I’ll take you back to my place; we’ll talk about it there.”
---
It felt more familiar the second time around, I thought; even the tea that he brewed felt more
comforting than before, and I thought, for a second, that I could get used to that house of his. I
sipped it quietly, as before, watching in silent awe as he gulped down the steaming drink with
little reaction to its extreme heat. He caught me staring, and I looked away, red unwillingly
spreading across my features. I could see him raise an eyebrow at my blushing, but he said
nothing about it.
After a certain amount of time had passed in that way, I relented, opening up to him in a way that
I hadn’t ever before.
“I love him.”
I said it so plaintively, I suppose, that he was at first taken aback by my words; a little later, I saw
his irises darken in a mixture of jealousy and sadness, the latter emotion winning out as he
replied:
“Have—have you told him yet?”
I shook my head with a rueful sort of smile, holding the cup of tea in my hands as I sat on his
soft couch, my body leaned forward with my elbows resting on my knees.
“No, but . . . I tried to, today.” I looked at him with such a regretful expression as I was sure he
had never seen me wear, and I could see his fist tense, then relax. I wondered if he wanted to
comfort me somehow, but I didn’t get the chance to think on it more, his voice interrupting my
thoughts.
“What happened?”
I sighed, turning the cup in my hands. “He—he went out with his friends, and I didn’t have the
guts to tell him in school.” I smiled sadly again, though the expression quickly dropped into a
frown as I regarded the steam billowing out of the cup. “I probably deserve this, don’t I? I mean,
I’ve had so many opportunities to tell him, but—”
I felt my cup being removed from my grasp as Shimizu moved to sit next to me on the couch,
glaring at me reproachfully. Even so, he took my hands in his, eyeing me with more meaning in
one look then than he ever had before.
“Don’t say that, Watanabe. Don’t blame yourself.”
I was touched by his support, and also somewhat perturbed by it—didn’t he like me? I suddenly
felt terrible for dumping all my heartache on the man that I knew held one-sided feelings for me,
pulling my hands from his as I turned away from him.
“Arigatou, Shimizu. But, that’s all I’ve been able to do for the past year,” I told him gently,
finally looking at him again as a small, affected smile cracked on my lips. “Blame myself, I
mean.”
He laid his hand against my cheek—I should’ve known what would follow, but it still took me
by surprise when he leaned forward, our faces mere centimeters from the other. My breath
quickened in my throat at our closeness, though, at the same time, an inexplicable feeling of
relief spread over my body when his breath mingled with mine, our lips not yet meeting.
“Shimizu, I—”
He ended my whisper of a sentence with the most tender of caresses upon my tea-moistened lips,
the sensation so feather-light that my eyes unconsciously shut, allowing him to plant more
butterfly kisses on me. His hand moved from my cheek to the crook of my neck before sliding
back down to my shoulder, resting gently there as our lips barely touched again. My body
shuddered when his fingers passed just under the fabric of my shirt on my back, sliding it ever-
so-slightly down past my right shoulder; tears beaded at my eyes again when his warm hand
circled my bare shoulder blade, though their cause for forming was quite different from the
afternoon previous.
Why is his touch so soft?
I knew that the salty liquid dripping slowly down my cheeks was caused by his gentleness then
—I didn’t feel as though I deserved it after all I had said to him, though it felt so comforting that
I could hardly ask him to stop then. He kissed away the tears, as he had before; and when he had
drunk every last drop of them from my face, he moved back to capture my lips again. It was
then, when his lips gradually began to overtake mine in a more passionate way than before, that I
felt really conscious of what would happen if I did not stop him; finally, when his tongue begged
entrance into my mouth, I pushed him away gently, my swollen lips panting for breath.
“I—I can’t, Shimizu.”
“Why not?”
His eyes were probing, some fire brewing in their depths. I could guess easily enough that I had
already gone too far, though that would not prevent me from trying to end it there. I looked at
him honestly, keeping my gaze fixed on him, difficult as it was.
“Because I don’t want to hurt you,” I told him, my tone as genuine as I had heard it to be in
weeks. “I . . .” I hesitated with what I was about to tell him, though I proceeded anyway. Better
to let him know then rather than hurting him deeper later.
“I don’t want to lead you on anymore—to make you think that I like you.”
I saw his vision darken considerably at my words, though he appeared less angry and
more . . . determined, if anything. I was piqued by the expression, watching him as his eyes
became the same color as Hayato’s, if darker.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I blushed at his reply, edging closer towards the arm of the couch as he advanced over my figure,
pressing his lips to mine once he had gotten close enough to do so. He weighed down upon me in
such a way that I couldn’t push him off even if I had wanted to, though his kiss was so enflamed
with lust that I wasn’t sure what to do then. It didn’t matter to him whether I liked him or not? It
didn’t matter to him if I was leading him on? Then what, exactly, did he have to gain from this . .
. this . . . thing?  I could barely form coherent thoughts, though, when I felt his hand snake its
way underneath my sweater, caressing my abdomen and sides smoothly as I bucked a little at his
touch. When he finally reached my bra under the sweater, he lifted it over my breasts, his hot
hand searing the sensitive skin there. I let out a squeak (or maybe it was a moan) as his fingers
worked the soft flesh, encircling, especially, its responsive center.
“Jun! Tadaima!” (2)
We froze in spot, but only for a second; in a rush of hurried movement we both managed to
return to our former positions, me sitting on one couch holding my cup of tea, he on the other
with his now empty cup. He pretended to be a little pleased by his parents’ return, moving from
his spot to walk (albeit with something of a nervous jolt to his step) forward to greet them. I felt
too beet-red to say anything myself, still paralyzed by the sudden halt to Shimizu and I’s rather
intense little interlude on the couch. I could pick up little of their small talk near the entrance, my
body hot from the blood that coursed violently through my veins.
“Ah! Jun, you had a guest? Why didn’t you say anything?” His mother asked him, her curious
tone only serving to make me feel more nervous. Nonetheless, I tilted my head in her direction,
smiling uneasily through my painful blush. I moved from my spot, much as I didn’t want to,
walking a ways until I was a few feet from her, bowing a bit.
“Hajimemashite. I’m Watanabe Kaho—Kahoko.” (3) I said it with a shaky voice as I
remembered to pronounce my full name and not just the nick name; his mother gave me a
friendly smile, making me feel somewhat more at ease. After a tiny pause, I continued, “I’m one
of Shimizu—Shimizu-kun’s classmates.”
She nodded at the small introduction, bowing a little herself in greeting. “Hajimemashite. I’m
Jun’s mother—you can just call me Ami, ne?” I reddened at the informality, but she only
laughed a little, giving her son a sly look. “Honestly, I’m surprised at you, Jun,” she chided her
son playfully, Shimizu looking mightily uncomfortable. She winked in my direction, telling me
in just above a whisper, “He almost never brings people here, except for his teammates in track. I
was beginning to wonder if he had any female friends at all!”
“Yamete, okaasan,” Shimizu muttered discontentedly, and I held back a tiny giggle at the
disgruntled expression he wore. He eyed me with the lingering hint of a blazing lust, and my
discreet smile immediately dropped as the color returned to my cheeks full force.
His mother, Ami, chuckled at her son before eyeing the door from whence she entered, calling
out, “Anata! Come in so you can get dressed for dinner!” (4)
His father appeared then, causing Shimizu’s face to lose the last vestiges of warmth that he had
had with me earlier. The older man smiled broadly at his wife, grasping her around the shoulders
in a half-hug before greeting his son with a decidedly more somber look, the countenance
complementing Shimizu’s in whole. “Well, Jun? Aren’t you going to greet your own father?”
Jun let out an unenthusiastic “Okaeri nasai” (5) to satisfy the man’s wishes, and though his father
frowned deeply at Shimizu’s frank rudeness, his sharp eyes were on me soon enough, at which I
gulped.
I was shocked to find, however, that rather than the grave expression I was used to seeing on his
father’s face, the man faced me with a beaming smile much like the one he had shown his wife
upon entering the house. Maybe he was just better with women?
“Well, hello! And who might you be?” He asked in as welcoming a tone as Shimizu’s mother
had, but before I could answer his mother cut in, replying for me.
“Watanabe Kahoko-san. One of Jun’s classmates! I was just telling her how strange it was to see
Jun bring a girl home.”
Shimizu and I reddened considerably at the implications of her words, his father getting
something of a grin going once he understood his wife’s meaning. “Eh? Sou ka. It’s a pleasure to
meet you, then, Watanabe-san!” He smirked a little before continuing, “I’m Masahiro. Please,
excuse my son’s . . .” he eyed Shimizu with some distaste, “impoliteness earlier. He means
nothing by it. Ne, Jun?”
There was real contempt belying Shimizu’s look then; it scared me a little, having not seen it in
so long.
“Ee, otousan. Nothing at all.”
His father held back a strong scowl of disapproval before stalking past his son, throwing one last,
dazzling smile my way before he reached the staircase. “Please, make yourself at home,
Watanabe-san! Jun will attend to your every need while you’re here.” He exchanged one last,
scathing look with Shimizu before he and his wife walked to their room to get ready, I assumed,
for their dinner out. I glanced at Shimizu unsurely once they had gone upstairs, though his
hardened features told me little besides the fact that he was obviously angry.
I hesitated, playing with a loose thread on my sweater. “Should I—should I go?”
He shook his head, a surprising move considering his assumedly distracted state. “You can stay.
Just . . . just wait until they leave.”
I nodded without understanding what he had meant. He couldn’t have wanted to continue where
we had left off—could he? No,  I thought, eyeing him suspiciously, he’s too angry for that. I kept
guessing to myself without a hint from him until his parents left, both of them waving their
goodbyes to me as they walked out the door. I watched the door close behind them with a small
feeling of sentimentality; sometimes, even though I knew it was impossible, I wished that my
parents had stayed together.
“Let’s go to my room.”
I was taken aback by the request (or order, as it were); it was so blunt that I would have blushed
had I not seen Shimizu’s morose appearance as he climbed the stairs, and I followed mostly on
account of some sympathetic urge within me that pushed me forward. I stared at his back as he
flipped on the ceiling light in the room, then looked about the place to see just where Shimizu
Jun went to bed at night.
To my disappointment, the room was rather plain—a few posters here and there and pictures cut
out of magazines of famous track stars and bands and the like, but nothing else to cover the
ghastly white walls. A simple wooden desk sat in the corner with papers for school laying on top,
some sports magazines scattered about on the wooden floor beneath. His bed was across from the
desk with blue sheets covering it, and he sat on it tiredly, glancing at my wandering eyes before
patting a place next to him on the mattress.
I took that seat hesitantly, still unsure of his intentions. He sighed at my caution, though, and that
was when I knew that he wouldn’t make another move on me. I felt relief at that, yet also the
slightest hint of displeasure—that emotion being well-hid from his view.
“They live beyond their means,” he said solemnly, glancing at the open door to his room with
jaded irises. I followed his stare, then looked back at him, his gaze still not meeting mine.
“You mean . . . about your parents going out for dinner a lot?” I asked, trying to catch his
meaning correctly. He gave me a sort of twisted frown, and I could sense his frustration building.
“It’s not just dinner,”  he said with disgust, “It’s . . . everything. This house, their stuff, it’s just—
they can’t afford any of it, yet they still do it anyway.” He looked away, his ire overtaking, I
guessed, his ability to look at me with a more pleasant face; I sat, wondering over what he had
said.
“Is that why—why you and your father don’t get along?”
He let out a small “feh” at that query, honest as it was; with spite in his tone, he replied: “That’s
part of the reason, yes.”
I decided not to venture further into his family’s history, figuring that he was already too worked
up about it; nevertheless, I was apprehensive about something else, and asked him about it
directly.
“Why are you telling me these things?”
He looked at me then, some surprise evident in his features. After a moment of quiet on his part,
he replied in much the same way that I always did to him, his voice curiously genuine.
“I don’t know.”
---------------------
Japanese Terms:
1 a get-together where guys/girls can meet potential girlfriend/boyfriend candidates
2 “We’re home!”
3 “How do you do?” (hajimemashite)
4 “Dear!” (anata)
5 “Welcome home”
Title of chapter (translated): Lies
Author’s Note: Another correction: In the last chapter, I SOMEHOW incorrectly referred to
Hayato as “Wakamura-kun” instead of “Wakamoto-kun,” which is his last name—I apologize
for this inconsistency on my part, and promise that it will not happen again. Otherwise, I’m glad
that this chapter ended the way that it did—for a long period of time it was going in another
direction, but I managed to steer the ship back to harbor, if you know what I mean. Haha! I know
it’s been waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long since I last updated, but I’m sure you’ve all been busy with
the holiday season yourselves, so you understand…right? Hehe. And yes, the whole thing about
Hayato going to a goukon  will be resolved in the next chapter, so don’t think that he’s going
crazy and that’s he not really gay, OK? Haha.
CHAPTER 19 PREVIEW:
Given her interesting encounter with Shimizu and their surprisingly honest exchange of stories,
will Kaho have enough strength to confront Hayato once and for all about her unrequited love for
him? And even if she does, what other obstacles can hidden enemies create to re-establishing her
relationship with her old best friend?
 
 
 
Chapter 19: Shoujiki
 
 
I left Shimizu’s home somewhat awkwardly late that same afternoon, though the sensation I felt
upon entering and the one I was experiencing over leaving were two entirely different things.
When I had first gone in, there was that latent expectation in my mind for sympathy, even
understanding from Shimizu; the fact that I received them, however, seemed to have confused
my heart more than comforted it. His kindness only added to my guiltiness in that I was using
him as a sort of rebound for Hayato—a concept so ridiculous within itself that I had a hard time
taking it seriously. And upon accepting such gentility from him, did I not further encourage his
hidden intentions towards me? His hidden (but painfully obvious) feelings towards me? If
anything, our conversation had simply been a prelude to our physical union, and that worried me
immensely.
You can’t keep giving in to what you want.
I rode home on my bike with that scolding thought in mind, my feet unconsciously pedaling
faster as I grew alternately angrier at myself for falling prey to my passions and to my
unreasonable emotions. I lost sight of home in that ride, veering slightly off course as I neared
my original destination. In fact, by the time I slowed to a stop, I hardly could tell where I was,
the sky having grown dark and veiled in my traveling.
I looked about with squinting eyes that could perceive little and recognize less; nevertheless,
within moments of my feet being planted onto the pavement below, my eyes widened a little in
surprise.
Hayato’s apartment.
Perhaps unconsciously I had driven myself to that location, but the more I thought on it, the more
sure I was that my being there was no mere accident. I swallowed hard as I dislodged myself
from the bike seat, directing it over to the bicycle stand outside the building before locking it in
place, my eyes never straying from Hayato’s shaded window. I walked towards the building as if
spellbound, digging into my jacket’s pocket for the spare key to the front door that he had given
me years earlier so that I could come in whenever I felt like it. Had I been less aware of myself
then, I mused, I probably would have left the key in the door after I opened it.
It was a slow, odd sort of walk up the stairs and down the hallway to his abode, and yet it felt so
natural that I was less perturbed by the whole situation than I probably should have been. My
feet found themselves in front of his door soon enough, and when they did, my hand
unconsciously followed their initiative, my left index finger tentatively ringing his doorbell.
“Haaaai!” I heard him shout from inside as his steps neared the door, and I reddened at the sound
of his voice, wondering how it could still affect me so after all that had happened earlier.
He opened the door rather hastily, and I blushed again at his distracted appearance, one hand on
the doorknob as the other grasped a towel, drying his just-showered hair. He wore a white tank
top over his glistening torso, the water from his shower staining through the shirt and revealing
the muscle beneath. A pair of loose, black sweatpants covered his legs, his feet being bare.
I shook off the initial burst of color that stained me as my eyes returned to his face, his
expression one of shock and very telling of his lack of preparation for my visit. His warm brown
eyes were glazed over in confusion and surprise, his lips slightly parted in unsettledness.
“K . . . Kaho?”
I looked down for a moment when I heard him say my name, feeling as though I hadn’t heard
him say it so gently in years. When I looked up again, my blush was abated, but not entirely
gone.
“Can I come in?”
He only nodded blankly, opening the door wider for me so that I could enter. My steps were
meek, timid, even—what had felt natural earlier in regards to entering the building did not feel so
natural in his apartment, and my hand trembled in . . .
Anticipation?
I shrugged off the suggestion, turning to stare at Hayato as he closed the door behind me, his
look ever-the-more questioning as time passed by even more slowly than before. With a faint
smile, I persevered, aiming at a goal that was, for the most part, completely inconceivable.
“I’ll make dinner.”
---
I stood at the oven, calmly (or at least trying to look as much) stir-frying some vegetables and
chicken for “dinner” as Hayato sat on a cushion at the table, the traditional Japanese style so
starkly contrasting that of Shimizu’s kitchen earlier. The towel that had been drying his hair was
now slung around his neck and hanging about his shoulders, his hair midway between being wet
and dry, its spikes flattened. I kept from swallowing at the thought of being there, alone with
him, after what I had done with Shimizu. He only watched me curiously, though some of the
bitterness from school that day lingered in his irises.
I sighed a little at seeing that emotion underlying the current situation, but knew that it was there
for good reason. What right had I to intrude on him after all that I had done and said? There was
no real excuse for my behavior, but . . .
The goukon.
I was simply dying  to ask him about, but knew better than to just come right out and say it. For a
time I had even forgotten about it while with Shimizu, but being there just brought back all those
twisted feelings from the first moment I had heard him consent to his idiotic friends’ plan. But
was I angrier about him leaving me to go with them, or about his friends being so blind as to
force someone who had no interest whatsoever in a goukon to go with them?
Then again, I thought somewhat ruefully, how would they  be able to tell?
Sure, he almost always declined their invitations to go to goukons in the past and never
participated in their conversations about girls, but he was the star player of the team—a sure sign
of his masculinity, right? It was a testament to Hayato’s skills in hiding who he really was,
though those skills, I’m sure, never made him feel better about himself. But why, then, had he
agreed to go that goukon?Had it simply been to bait me? To make me out to be the villain? I
knew that in some respects I was, but the idea that he had made such a spectacle in front of
me just  to teach me a lesson seemed . . . unlikely, to say the least.
“Ah! You’re burning the mushrooms!”
I looked down and flinched in surprise at the blackening tops of the mushrooms, quickly
dropping them off on a plate to the side. I felt even more embarrassed when Hayato rushed up
beside me, speedily correcting my mistakes as he grasped my hand holding a spatula in his,
guiding the vegetables and chicken into a more steady motion. I reddened slightly in shock at the
feeling of his large hand enveloping mine, almost having forgotten the sensation after not feeling
it for so long. Once he saw that I was stable enough to take care of the rest, his hand released
mine—though the retraction was not without a good pause of his fingers hovering over mine,
they, perhaps, having realized how foreign the sensation was as well.
After another few seconds of hesitation he returned to his seat, directing his gaze away from me
and instead at the table. I could have sighed in relief at the lack of attention, though once I
finished cooking dinner and placed the stir-fry atop the table’s cool surface, that temporary
respite was nowhere to be found. His eyes watched me as a vulture would, though perhaps not so
ravenously. I almost trembled at his stare, but kept my grip firm all the while, refusing to let him
get the better of me.
I sat down after finally placing everything needed for dinner on the table, feeling more ill at ease
than I had been even after he had touched my hand. I half-smiled, gesturing towards the food.
“Please, eat,” I told him, though he only continued to look at me with apprehensiveness, his
shoulders hunched in wariness.
“What are you doing, Kaho?”
I swallowed at that query; shortly afterwards, my smile melted away, a serious countenance
replacing it.
“Eat first,” I said quietly, “and then we’ll talk.”
He didn’t acquiesce immediately to the request, but eventually complied—though his lips were
stitched into a frown, I could see that he liked my cooking, which pleased me. I kept myself from
smiling a little, turning to my own share of the meal as we ate in relative silence.
It was not twenty minutes after I had last spoken that we both sat staring at each other with
empty bowls, and my cheeks heated a little as I broke the connection, collecting the dirty dishes
and beginning to clean them over the sink. Hayato never averted his gaze, burning holes in my
side. My fingers began to scrub the plates more vigorously as the hotness of his stare seemed to
penetrate my very core, and I felt myself set the last clean dish back in the cupboards with a
louder clang than usual. I turned back to him then, setting my lips in a small frown from
uneasiness.
“Can we go to your room?”
---
I had probably made things even more awkward by asking him such a thing; his look of
suspicion grew as we sat on the floor, some cushions beneath us giving us little added comfort.
He leaned back against the wall, the action a clear sign of his unhappy mood.
“Well, Kaho?”
I grimaced at the sound of my name, though I didn’t back away from the question. I faced him
with lucid eyes, knowing he appreciated honesty more than anything else (even if he couldn’t be
honest himself).
“You know why I’m here, Hayato,” I said in as straight-forward a manner as possible, side-
stepping my usual ambivalence. “You knew that I would come.”
He chortled a little at that, crossing his arms. “I wonder if I knew that.”
I frowned at his attitude, but kept going. “Look, Hayato, I didn’t come here to beat around the
bush this time, so let’s just . . . stopthis.”
His brow lifted in surprise, and he eyed me with some bitterness. “But isn’t that what you always
do? Beat around the bush, I mean?”
I reddened from the anger welling up within me, but managed to quell it slightly before I spoke
again.
“In the past few months, hai, I have been doing that,” I admitted, “but I’ve been trying to tell you
the whole truth . . . and how could I now, when I see you go off to a gou—”
I stopped myself short of saying what I had wanted to say all afternoon and evening, blushing
furiously as my mouth snapped shut, my eyes avoiding his suddenly curious ones. He moved a
little closer to me, and I moved a bit further away in response.
“A goukon, Kaho? Is that what you meant to say?”
I didn’t answer, and he leaned in, his expression softening. He sighed, running his hand through
his matted hair and looking surprisingly culpable while doing so.
“I—” he paused, glancing at me before continuing, “I’ll admit: I knew that it would upset you if I
agreed to go right in front of you.” I turned away in hurt at the acknowledgment of what I had
hoped was false, almost not wanting to hear any more. “But, Kaho—”
“Never mind,” I said quietly, my eyes colder, “it’s none of my business anyw—”
“I didn’t go.”
I looked up in surprise at his strong words, and he stared back at me meaningfully, my heart
fluttering a little at his admission. His arms uncrossed, hanging lax at his side. “I did go with
them to the game center, but . . .” He stared at me then, saying softly, “I told them I wasn’t
interested in the goukon and left.”
I blushed at his words, comforted and yet haunted by them.
“I . . . I’m glad you didn’t go.”
When he looked up at me, I felt my cheeks rouge an even darker shade of red, the weight of that
one sentence striking me full-force. He looked to the side a moment later, the promise of a sigh
lingering on his curved lips.
“I know you are.”
There was a certain perceptiveness to that single phrase that perturbed me for reasons I couldn’t
describe; I furrowed my brow in confusion, probing his words (if only lightly).
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know, Kaho.”
I reddened even further, though this time it was more out of embarrassment than out of affection.
A chord of fear rang within me, my throat swallowing with such difficulty that I was sure I
would choke. My lips stammered horribly, perhaps the worst they ever had in a long while. My
body, it seemed, had lost all connection with my brain.
He knows.
“Ha—Hayato, I—”
He regarded me kindly then, some sadness resting in his gaze. I could’ve cried at it had I not
been so confused and frightened, the overwhelming reality of the situation overshadowing my
jumbled feelings.
“Daijoubu, Kaho . . .”
He already knows.
His voice began to fade as I stared at the ground, knowing yet unwilling to acknowledge the fact
that
You knew that he knew, didn’t you?
I shook my head a little, but the motion was futile. My thoughts were as clear as day to me—
clearer even than that. Nonetheless, nothing but my mind would work properly—my ears could
not hear Hayato speaking to me, nor could my lips reply to the sound of his voice.
“Kaho?”
My eyes slowly met his when he spoke my name in a louder voice that time, arousing my
attentions to him. I couldn’t express, in words, the agony of not having been able to tell him the
truth all those years, nor the frustration I felt when he had intercepted my attempt to tell him
then. I only wished that he were tenderer than he was when he actually said it; that usual softness
of his was coarsened by my foul mood towards him of late, though I nonetheless resented the
resignation in his tone. I refused to speak, fearing that I would say something regrettable if I did.
He nudged himself closer to me still, but I no longer had any will in me to fight off his advances.
“Gomen  for not saying anything before,” he said quietly, and I was surprised by the genuine
melancholy that colored his baritone. “I knew, I knew for a long time, I just . . .” he paused,
gazing at me with warmer eyes, “I think I was just pretending that it wasn’t that big of a deal.
You were acting so weirdly, and I knew why, but—but I didn’t want to believe that it was all
because of me.”
I blushed again, but that time it was on account of my brain acknowledging the other muddying
factor that Hayato hadn’t mentioned and that I had refrained from talking about under any
circumstances.
It was because of Shimizu, too.
I shook off the thought again, not wanting to think of him, especially him, at that time. My lips
parted, regaining some of their consciousness. “I wanted to tell you, Hayato, I—
I’ve always wanted to tell you.” I looked at him sadly, and the deep affection that I felt for him
in that moment was more than apparent from my expression. “I just . . . never found the right
time to say it, I guess.”
That last statement was more of a half-truth than I had intended it to be; surely, I had been afraid
to tell Hayato for a number of years about my love for him, but it had been the discovery of his
preference that had sealed away my unrequited affections forever. I bit my lip slightly as a
feeling of light guilt raced through my heart at the partial lie I had told, though I was sure that
Hayato hadn’t noticed.
“I figured as much,” he said gently, his eyes resting on my left hand as it lay taut on the floor,
aware of the fact that he might suddenly desire to touch it. When he looked up at me again, my
stare was more questioning.
“When did you—how did you find out?”
He laid back against the wall again, though our gazes were still locked. His countenance was
sweeter than before, and I was glad for the change.
“The summer of our last year in middle school,” he replied smoothly, not a drop of hesitation in
his handsome voice. I swallowed at the memories of that glorious season, suddenly thinking of
how obvious I had been without realizing it. He only continued, ignoring my blushing cheeks.
“Once we started school this year, and I noticed that you were really uncomfortable around me, it
sort of . . . confirmed my suspicions, I guess.”
I looked at him with pinked features, my expression softened considerably by his calm words.
Though I felt my lips tremble at the weight of the question I was about to ask, I voiced it
anyway, desperate to hear his answer firsthand.
“And what do you think about it, Hayato?”
He  actually blushed that time, my heart suddenly thrilled by the shock of blood that colored him
so vividly; despite knowing I would be disappointed, I still felt the momentary sensation that
maybe, just maybe he would answer my feelings favorably. His face fell after he recovered from
the impact of the query, the silence in the room foretelling his reply drenched in regret.
“I . . . I can’t say that I feel the same.”
----------------------------------------------
Title of chapter (translated): Honesty
Author’s Note: OMG, soooooooooo sorry for the long wait!! School is even more hectic this
semester, and I’ve been on-and-off writing this chapter since December—I know, I’m terrible!
And I realize that not much happened in this chapter action-wise, but I hope you all appreciate
the impact it will have on the story in general! I also realize that I was supposed to deliver on the
“hidden enemies” bit in the preview from the last chapter, but…that will have to wait until at
least the end of chapter twenty/twenty-one. Things, I promise, will get MUCH more interesting
after this point!
CHAPTER 20 PREVIEW:
And so…the secret’s out! Knowing Hayato’s definite rejection, however, can Kaho go on
pretending that she isn’t affected by it? And if she does, how will her continued efforts to get
over Hayato play into her twisted relationship with Shimizu?