Chapter IX: An Elegy For My Insanity (II)

Modern History dragged on.

The teacher’s (whose name I always had a tough time remembering) monotone lecture about postwar reconstruction was the perfect white noise for my fractured thoughts. My notebook remained empty; concurrently, I found that hovering your pen uselessly over a random page was enough to avoid her calling on you.

I was so tired. So tired of everything. So tired that my bones ached.

And so instead, I found myself sketching. It was a habit I'd abandoned years ago. Just small, meaningless shapes at first. Then curves that became musical notes. Notes that formed a melody I couldn't hear but could somehow feel. The same one that had floated through the evening air nights ago. The one that had pulled me back from the edge.

I tore the page out, crumpled it, and shoved it deep into my bag.

When the lunch bell finally rang, I gathered my things quickly. I couldn't face the cafeteria today—not with Midou watching, not with Akise avoiding me, and certainly not with the weight of everything pressing down on my chest like a boulder. I headed for the one place no one would look for me: the library reference section. It was perpetually empty during lunch. To be most charitable, it was a dusty corner of outdated encyclopedias and yellowing dictionaries that even the most dedicated students avoided.

I settled into the corner, back against the wall, and pulled out the convenience store bread I'd grabbed on the way to school. I wasn't hungry, but eating was another mechanical function to maintain the illusion of normalcy.

"You're in my spot."

That voice... that sound.

Minazuki Serena stood at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, bearing an expression unreadable. Her scarlet hair fell in waves around her shoulders, framing her face like a portrait painted with too vivid a palette for the muted library backdrop.

My heart could only slam against my ribcage.

The last time we'd spoken directly, my nose had been streaming blood onto the classroom floor.

"S-sorry, I'll go." I stammered, immediately gathering my things with clumsy, rushed movements.

"Don't bother."

She slid down the opposite wall, sitting cross-legged with her back against the encyclopedias. She maintained a careful distance—at least six feet between us. It was not a random number. It was the exact distance where she wouldn't have to smell my deodorant or hear my breathing.

The exact distance required to avoid another incident like in June.

Her fist connecting with my face, the crunch of cartilage, the metallic taste of blood.

The way the hall had fallen completely silent.

And the words that followed...

"You're the most annoying, pathetic person I've ever met."

I realized I'd frozen in place, half-standing, like a deer caught in headlights.

It was a painful memory that I'd rather not recall. It made me wonder how she managed to sleep so soundly at night. It was like her moral code was missing, but in an oddly compelling way.

"Sit," she commanded, not looking up as she pulled out a paperback with Italian text. "Just don't talk."

I sank back down while pressing myself against the wall, attempting to make myself smaller. My fingers instinctively went to the bridge of my nose—the slight bump where it hadn't healed perfectly straight. It was a permanent reminder of my persistence and her limits.

"..."

"..."

The silence was heavy, punctuated by the turning of pages in her book. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the stillness. I wondered if others could sense the electricity in this dusty corner. Midou would have a field day if he caught us here... Serena (his trophy) and her punching bag, both reunited in their natural habitat.

Though, regardless of the tension... there was only one thought in my mind as I tried to make my staring not obvious.

She... likes to read?

It felt wrong to apply any mundane activity to her, but there she was, turning pages with slender fingers.

What kind of books did she like to read? Romance? Action? Drama? Historical fiction? Or maybe mystery? Honestly, it didn't seem like she was the kind to read fluff, and I couldn't see her being particularly interested in science or technology. Maybe she just liked reading about places she couldn't go herself.

Or possibly...

Smut?

My face warmed at the thought.

But then, simultaneously, I realized just how disgusting my behavior has been over the past few days. I had her lost earbud in my pocket. I'd been thinking of her constantly. It was creepy. It was unsightly. It was the behavior a deranged stalker might engage in. The more I thought about it, the worse it got. It was a never-ending spiral into self-disgust.

I tried to breathe normally, terrified that any sound might irritate her. I'd spent weeks carefully avoiding her path in hallways, volunteering for errands that took me to different floors during her classes, making sure I was never, ever in a position where I might bother her again.

Yet here we were. And she'd... permitted it.

She turned a page in her book with an elegant flick of the wrist. I noticed her nails were painted black today—the same color as the bruise she'd left on the place between and under my eyes four months ago.

I couldn't eat. I couldn't move. I stood stupified as if Medusa herself had cursed me. Enraptured, encapsulated, and drawn by proximity to a danger I couldn't stop watching. It was just like standing at the edge of the roof, both terrified and transfixed by the drop below.

The minutes stretched into eternities.

The sandwich in my lap remained untouched. I'd memorized the pattern of the carpet between us, counted the encyclopedias on the shelf beside her head, anything to avoid looking directly at her and risking eye contact.

And when the warning bell rang, I flinched so violently that I knocked my drink over. She closed her book and rose in one fluid motion, gathering her things as if I wasn't even there.

I expected her to leave without acknowledging my existence as she had in the classroom for months.

Instead, she paused, studying me with those ice-blue eyes that could have only existed in those fantasy novels. Her gaze traveled across my face, lingering for a fraction of a second on the slight crook in my nose—her handiwork.

"You look like shit, Kagami."

With that assessment delivered, she turned and walked away, leaving me to wonder if that had been concern, observation, or simply confirmation that her warning from June had been thoroughly internalized.

I waited until I was sure she was gone before touching my nose again.

And I hated myself for the warmth that spread in my chest at the notion that she'd actually talked to me. That someone else had acknowledged my existence for a reason that wasn't out of politeness.

That it had to be her.