That First Serious Time

“I wouldn't need your apology if you'd exceptionally come back earlier today, like I asked.” The coldness with which Hortensja spoke made Hikaru feel that the temperature in the room had dropped by a few degrees.

“I couldn't,” the man tried to defend himself. “You know how it is.”

“No, I don't know,” she leaned back in her chair with an offended expression. “Because to me, it's sick that you work so much that you're just a guest in your own home, and you still don't get anything out of it.”

“I just have to survive this time somehow.” Hikaru started to get nervous, but he didn't raise his voice yet, although the girl snorted ostentatiously.

“You've been in survival mode for a few months, and everything was supposed to calm down after the New Year,” she said. “I didn't say anything the whole time. I didn't complain. I just asked for your presence today. Did you try at least…”

“Of course! Do you think it's that easy? You must have worked overtime too.”

They stared at each other for a moment, gathering their strength for further confrontation, trying not to fall too quickly into a spiral of shouting and mutual accusations. The atmosphere was tense and thickened with every breath, as if it wanted to gather their negative emotions and not let it break up.

“It happened, but it could never exceed twelve hours, and I had to have an eleven-hour break between shifts,” she replied to the previous accusation.

“Sorry, it doesn't work that way here,” Hikaru spoke with sarcasm. He had also been on the edge for a long time.

“Exactly, and you don't want to do anything about it,” the girl accused him.

“You have no idea how hard I try to handle all this. If you were Japanese, you would understand.”

He didn't really want to say that. It didn't bother him at all, but the situation they were in, and his nerves made him say those words unnecessarily. He knew it hurt her. Hortensja's lips immediately tightened, but there was a deep sadness in her eyes. He didn't even have time to try to smooth things over. Hikaru could only watch as the girl stood up and headed for the door.

“But I'm not, and I never will be. I try to fit in, but it will never be enough. My culture is a part of me. You have no right to demand that I renounce it,” she said tremblingly, putting on her jacket. She fixed her hair, which cascaded down her back. She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “And I don't intend to. It's the only thing I have left.”

Hikaru didn't know how to react, but he also didn't have the reflex to stop her. There were still some grievances smoldering in him, which stopped him from taking action. He stood motionless for a long time after the door slammed shut behind her, then he slumped into a chair and only then began to look around the apartment. He noticed the table set and the half-burnt candles. In the kitchen, he lifted the lid of the pot and noticed that the food smelled delicious. There was a box of band-aids lying next to it. Hikaru thought that Hortensja must have hurt herself again while cooking. Her absent-mindedness meant that he had to replenish the home medicine cabinet with dressings quite often.

He couldn't remember if he had looked at her hands; if he had decided to embrace them, he would have definitely felt where she had hurt herself. But he didn't, and he was left to wonder if the wound was painful. Hikaru had to rinse his face with water; he felt bad about himself, and he looked even worse. He didn't have time to look in the mirror, and only then did he notice how exhausted he was. Hair limp, sunken eyes with huge shadows, and no will to live. If he saw someone in this state, he would ask them to rest or send them to the hospital, but he wouldn't follow that advice himself. How many times had he heard Hortensja ask if he was okay, if everything was okay, and he had always managed to lie so as not to worry her, and she did it anyway.

With every passing second, he realized that his first priority had been work, which brought him no joy; on the contrary, it took away every last bit of him. His girlfriend was right; he had become a guest in his own home. He had sworn so much that he wanted Hortensja to become part of his family, but now he couldn't imagine what it would be like in a situation like this, and he knew it would happen again. If they succeeded and had children, his heart already ached that they wouldn't recognize him and that he wouldn't have the strength to take care of them or to play with them. He would have to live with the eternal feeling that he would have to make up for his absence over and over again.

Work was the perfect excuse. He had promised himself that he would treat Hortensja better, and yet since the holidays he had forgotten about the efforts he had sworn to make. He hadn't learned a single Polish word; he hadn't learned anything about her culture; he hadn't taken her on a real date; he hadn't talked to her or strengthened their bond. Hikaru simply accepted and adopted to the new reality and did not want to notice the small signs that it did not suit her.

And she really tried; she did not play the card: “I am a foreigner. I have to be forgiven for everything.” When he came back late, there were still notes and textbooks on the table. He was supposed to practice with her, and despite the fact that he did not keep his promise, she tried to start conversations with him in Japanese more and more often. She listened to him carefully and was very concerned about the lack of sufficient knowledge about the nuances of the culture of the Land of the Rising Sun. She tried to recreate Polish cuisine as much as she could, but she did not press and respected when he honestly said that something did not taste good to him. Hortensja learned Japanese cuisine, which he was used to. He frequently caught her watching instructional videos attentively; she especially liked to present him the results of her experiments as surprises.

Hikaru could not wait to work out cultural compromises that would make their relationship, home, and life one of a kind. He felt that he had let down not only her but himself as well. He had fallen in love so many times, and when he came across a woman who sincerely reciprocated his feelings, he had forgotten about his work, and now he could lose her.

The man rushed to the door and dressed in a hurry. He looked at the wall of rain with fear and grabbed an umbrella; he was sure that she hadn't brought one with her. He had to find her, but he didn't know where to start looking. Before, he could trust his intuition; coincidences happened on their own, but now nothing showed him the way. Instead, the phone rang, and her number appeared, but the voice on the other end was definitely not hers.