Chapter 2: Does Rain Always Come Without A Warning? (II)

After giving my umbrella to Kousaka-san, I stayed for a bit longer under the shade of my dango stall, looking at everything but her. I'm pinned on this comedic illusion that she'll precisely catch me the time my eyes landed on her.

But still I stayed. Studying the leaves of the camphor tree above her, counting one to ten thousand using my fingers, until my 'functional wasting of time' led to me realizing that the gold-spiked porcupine turned artist on the bench had already disappeared.

And with that, the desire to go home came in full throttle, so I left.

The rain soaked through my uniform. My socks squelched with each step. A slow chill crept up my spine as the high of our encounter dialed down.

Strangely, I felt light.

I didn't mean to ask this question myself, but my guilt kept clawing at my chest—have I stayed longer because of the rain or because Kousaka-san was still there?

It sent me a strange warmth, and I hope that it was from shame and nothing more.

And thus, my road home became nothing more than a heated argument against my conscience and fractured discipline.

She—who’s never accepted anything from anyone (I suppose), not just took the umbrella, but spoke to me and looked at me, acknowledging the tiny bits of my existence.

It was stupid and ironic to feel good about it. I told us that already.

And strangely enough, I found the corners of my mouth twitching upward against my will. I had to shut it. I can't betray the prudence I've earned through my solitude, and the guru that guided my soul for every move I took.

Delighted? No.

That wasn’t the word.

It was just a feeling of fulfillment after helping someone that needed it.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

***

I barely got the door shut before I dropped the bag of discount rice on the table. Fumbling out of my shoes, I stripped off the damp school uniform and draped it over the single rusted hook in the wall and changed into my loungewear.

Everything in the apartment was gray or empty.

No television, no extra chairs and no exemplary furniture, just the things I need to keep being functional and the requirements to make this day a yesterday.

One pair of rubber shoes.

A bare study desk.

A broken fan.

A rotting futon.

A rusting fridge humming like it was trying to apologize for being almost empty.

All mercilessly cramped into a 6 tatami mat room.

Mustering up the last ounces of strength I had, I heated lukewarm water, washed my cooking utensils, rinsed the sink, sorted the laundry I'll be dropping on a laundromat. I could feel my body burning with an upcoming cold, or worse yet, a high fever.

But this needs to be done. I kept moving like a guy on autopilot, because this routine ensured my survival.

I've been in so much worse before, and I just kept telling myself that it will pass.

I'll sleep it off and then I'll wake up fine.

The room tilted every time I blinked. My stomach ached from emptiness, and even the sound of rain outside had faded into a numb hum in my ears.

I'll be dropping by a convenience store later when I feel lighter, that's what I said to myself.

I brought the bowl of lukewarm water beside my futon and started wiping the cold out of me. I fumbled for the thermometer in the dusty medicine cabinet—a relic from when my parents still lived here, its contents mostly expired. The mercury climbed slowly, stubbornly, to an alarming number.

I never knew that I was a walking fireball when I saw that my temperature reached 39.6 degrees.

I sighed, and threw it back where it came from.

This is my fault.

I relied heavily on ready to eat meals and canned goods because they're cheap, and now my immune system came out short on budget.

Sinking to my futon, my forehead burned.

I curled in it, pulled the ragged blanket over my shoulders, and shut my eyes against the dead grey ceiling above.

But the warmth I'm searching for didn’t come.

Instead, there came the memories.

A tender mother's hand caressing my youthful face.

The scent of miso, and the shitty taste of liquid paracetamol that urged me to throw up rather than heal.

A reassuring glance from a father after a fever dream.

It played out like a broken cassette. Half formed, out of focus, voices nearly taken by oblivion.

I knew the meaning of this.

Seeing and remembering them meant I am vulnerable.

That I let myself fall into the transgression of withered emotions.

I'm not putting the mask on well, to put it simply.

So maybe, releasing everything would click it back to place.

“You left.”

The words cracked in my throat, barely audible. My hand clenched the edge of the futon.

“Why?”

Was I a burden?

Was I too much?

Not enough?

I earned stars in my kindergarten.

I graduated primary school with honors.

I entered middle school with high notes.

Then the ones who were supposed to stay, left.

Why didn’t they say anything? Why didn’t they look back?

I was too young to understand comfort back then. And now, I'm too old to pretend it never mattered.

Heck, I didn't even ask to be born. I have suffered enough to crush an average teenager’s spirit, but I never thought of ending it all.

Because I'm not like them.

I'm not a coward who escapes when something becomes too inconvenient.

I braved through it all, and I am proud of that.

"..."

Everything felt thin—like the world could tear apart at any moment, and I wouldn’t even hear the sound.

I felt a bead of sweat falling.

No.

In a room this cold, it was impossible.

It was tears.

Then came another.

Until it flooded way out of my control.

I was too tired to wipe them away.

My frame buckled from the shivers of the cold and the shudder of my quiet sobs.

Anger and frustration melted in the form of merciless rain from my eyes.

For the first time, I mourned not just from the sadness of their abandonment, but the darkest days I endured after they left.

At that age, I was supposed to be solving elementary math problems, and not the finances of adults.

I was supposed to swim in the sea with my family, not with loan sharks.

I lamented the toys I should've bought, the places I could've gone to, the family bondings I could've relished, and the boy I could've been if I was raised by two loving parents.

Nietzsche said that in every real man, a child is hidden that wants to play. But neither I had both.

My youth was stolen away, leaving me in a limbo of my inner childish desires and the forced fulfillment of a role in society I was never ready for.

“Just let me…sleep it off,” I whispered, to no one.

The room tilted again, this time, it consumed my consciousness.

And the darkness pulled me under.

***

It must have been hours.

Or minutes.

Or the smallest breath between two distant thoughts.

But something shifted, like the world had changed without asking for my permission.

The air was overwhelmed by the scent of dashi granules and the soft rumble of boiling water.

I stirred, but my limbs refused to move.

Yet my eyes fought open.

The ceiling blurred in and out of focus—and when I turned to the kitchen windows, something unfamiliar was blocking it.

A woman, based on the defined curvature of her torso and the thickness of her snowy hips.

Shonan High School uniform. Sleeves rolled up to expose her flawless wrists.

Long hair gleaming like a golden fountain.

Back turned against me, she was focused on something near the sink, maybe chores I was forced to give up because of this damned fever.

She was moving like she belonged in this junkyard.

I closed my eyes, silently thanking my head for giving me a great dream.

But the loud crash of a fallen cooking pot lid and a muffled squeal of a woman put back the soul I was missing for a split second.

I bolted up on instinct, my heart drumming.

I blinked again.

No.

It wasn’t a dream.

There was a girl in my apartment.

And it wasn't just a random relative that visited her ailing nephew.

It was Kousaka Akari.