Chapter 16: Things We Only Say Without Words (III)

It took me a moment to believe he was real.

That the man standing before me, clad in tailored black, hair combed back like every thread had been negotiated, was truly Shimizu Kentaro.

He wasn't a nightmare. Not even a mirage dredged up from old resentments and abandoned hopes.

He returned and stood there like a shadow cast from another lifetime, cloaked in pressed fabric, stiff posture, and the unmistakable scent of aftershave I hadn’t smelled in five years.

“Why are you here?” My voice came out steady, but there was a static ringing in my ears—a calm before a migraine.

Kentaro Shimizu tilted his head, his sharp eyes scanning the hallway like it offended his sensibilities.

“Shouldn’t we proceed inside first?”

“I don’t remember welcoming you.”

He chuckled—not out of amusement, but out of intellectual confidence. “Ah, but conversation of this nature isn’t meant for public digestion, wouldn’t you agree?”

That was him. Always speaking like a published journal article.

No stains on his syntax, tongue always coated in venom.

I turned the key reluctantly.

The apartment door opened with a tired click. His footsteps behind me were precise, almost surgical as if even his intrusion was rehearsed.

“This apartment changed a lot, Itsuki.”

“For the worse? Yeah.”

I didn’t offer tea or a conversation. I just leaned on the wall, glancing at the scattered homework I hadn’t even touched.

He remained standing, half of his face lit by outdoor lighting and the other half clad in the darkness of my room. I had no chairs to hand out.

We stared at each other like two men across a chessboard, too familiar with the other’s moves to feign surprise.

“You’re living like a monk,” he said, eyeing the cluttered shelves and threadbare curtains. “No heater? No air purifier? You’re practically fermenting in this box and freezing in the winter.”

“I sold them all.”

“Oh, for what? Rice flour dumplings in a stall that wouldn’t pass the city inspection?”

I didn’t flinch.

“At least they taste good. Better than the lies I grew up swallowing.”

I pointed at the stacks of papers beneath me. “I didn't give up on my dreams unlike how you gave up on your parenting.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Still poetic, I see. Shame you can’t eat metaphors.”

I leaned forward.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries. I’m tired.”

He straightened his cuffs like I had asked the weather forecast.

“Tell me, Itsuki,” he began, voice low and deliberate. “Why didn’t you fight back?”

I blinked. “What?”

He titled his head in assessment.

“That delinquents in your school. You let them beat you.”

Morita and Hirose.

I don't owe him an explanation.

My frustration lies on the people who first throw punches yet get away with it even in the school grounds. Shonan's sense of justice isn't as polished as I expected it to be.

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“I teach remotely at Keio. A fellow colleague of mine is connected to Shonan’s administration. It didn’t take much to ask.”

Of course. Power connects to power. Men like him didn’t ask for information. It came to him, neatly packaged and curated.

“Suddenly concerned about your 'son'? What is this, post nut clarity?”

He huffed and smiled thinly. “Because you were never taught to lose.”

“Only to lose parents, no? They perfected the art of abandoning things they couldn’t control.”

“Tired line.”

I straightened up.

“Then maybe you should leave.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he walked to the window Kousaka-san just cleaned a few days ago, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the dim street outside like a scribe surveying the fall of Rome.

“Come to Tokyo.”

I gulped.

“Start over,” he continued. “I’ve secured access to atelier space, galleries and scholarships. Getting to Tokyo Geidai is just one word away. You could be what you once were. What you’re supposed to be.”

What am I supposed to be?

A Renaissance-esque painter? Someone that will paint cathedral ceilings and walls? Maybe portraits of the politicians in the Parliament?

Old emperors?

I laughed, not bitter or angry, but something akin to sarcastic.

“Supposed to be.”

“Yes,” he said, turning to face me. “Because wasting talent is a greater sin than never having it.”

“Funny. I heard the greater sin was destroying people and stripping them with talent just to preserve your pride. And not just random people, your very own son.”

He looked unshaken. “Is that what you think happened?”

“It’s not a theory. I lived it.” I pointed to the cabinet where my artworks are hidden. “I was eleven when you both walked out and left me with nothing but loan sharks.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

I stifled a chuckle.

It was such a Kentaro thing to say. As if survival was a virtue and not a consequence. As if life was a contract and enduring is what separates men from boys.

“You call this living?” I asked. “This dango stall, this run-down apartment, this broken phone I can barely charge? You think I'm proud because I survived this suffering?”

“Yes,” he said, stepping closer. “Because it proves one thing: that without us, you chose mediocrity.”

I stared at him down.

“No. Without you, I chose peace.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“You think your little routine here—selling snacks to strangers and playing house with some French delinquent—is peace?”

My hands balled into fists. “Don’t you dare bring her into this.”

His voice cooled. “Touchy.”

“Because unlike you, she didn’t ask for something in return. She didn’t come with terms and contracts.”

He turned his gaze back toward the window. “Is that what this is? A petty rebellion? Falling in love with broken things so you don’t feel like the only one?”

I gritted my teeth in infuriation.

Not because he was wrong.

But because he was dangerously close to a truth I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

A tired, knowing smile formed in his lips.

“You were better before.”

"You're right. But both of you ruined me."

"You ruined her first."

"She saw me as a rival and not a son. You're no good either. I was just a walking experiment in your eyes."

"It's because you were brilliant."

“I was eleven.”

“And gifted.”

“And terrified.”

His face didn’t move, but something shifted. A line across his brow. A calculation re-forming.

“She's steering you away from the future I had laid out for you.”

“Future? For me? From you?” I mockingly chuckled after that. “Stop spitting out nonsense and get out of my apartment.”

“Don't be so cozy with your interpersonal relationships. Not everyone stays, even her.”

“And maybe that’s okay,” I said quietly. “Because at least she stayed long enough to see who I was.”

He scoffed.

“You sound like a tragic and brooding poet."

“I sound like a human. Something you stopped being when you prioritized your thesis over your son.”

A beat passed.

Then, as if the topic was nothing more than weather, he added, “Your mother’s already doing well.”

I said nothing.

“She’s in the States and completed her rehabilitation two years ago. In fact, she was already a permanent resident there and plans to return here before Christmas. And…we have already remarried.”

I smiled. It didn’t reach my eyes.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You didn’t give up on the people you actually cared about.”

None of us spoke after that.

My phone buzzed, ripping the silence.

Kousaka-san.

I picked it up without thinking.

Kentaro raised a brow. “Acquaintances? I’m impressed. I already killed you socially before we left, you know.”

He stepped into the doorway.

Just before he left, he paused.

“Give me an answer within this week or I'll force you out of this junkyard and bring you to Tokyo.”

I looked up. “Test me.”

He just smiled condescendingly and left.

I stared at the open door, seeping in the tension that lingered in the air.

“Hello?” as I lifted my phone to my ear.

Kousaka-san's voice came through. “Jeez. You answer like you’re being interrogated.”

I closed my eyes. “Tough day.”

“I was actually planning to call you while I'm swimming in the private pool.”

I feel the colors draining from my face.

Kousaka-san, in swimsuit, night setting…

No, my thoughts are my own.

Don't let this evil presence on the other line consume you, Itsuki.

“Thought you were a saint.”

“...But my intuitions are right. You're hasty, talking to another person in my absence. So I didn't proceed.”

“He's…a relative.”

“And he's taking you to Tokyo?”

“I won't let him.”

The teasing lilt in her voice disappeared.

“Why?”

“I already had so many precious memories in Kobe. I don't want them to get tainted by another batch of bad memories somewhere else.”

“But your future will be much more secure in the capital. Prestigious schools, big companies, better—”

“This is my home.” I asserted, voice determined.

A couple of seconds passed in stillness.

“...Sounds heroic. I like it.”

“I just…don't want to be alone anymore.”

My words hung between us in the line. I wanted to say more, that I'm quite terrified of my father's insistence and what he is capable of doing from his remote vantage point.

And knowing him, he wouldn’t bluff. The next time he knocks, he won’t be alone.

Because I know he will take away everything around me to put me again into his control, and that involves even Kousaka-san.

And I won't be able to bear to have him hurt anyone close to me.

Returning to my senses, I was met by the faint sound of the heater running over the line.

“…Kousaka-san?”

No reply.

I waited, but nothing came.

Until I registered the sound of her calm breathing.

And the reaction that surfaced over me wasn't even in the category of sanity.

My free hand flew to my mouth.

“Why the heck am I blushing?”

Getting excited about something so casual like her breathing? This is ridiculous.

What if I'm truly some sort of sick freak? The worst...am I really a pervert?

As much as I disliked the theory in the back of my mind, it was still an interesting thought to think over.

The idea of male youth being inherently imaginative creatures where their rationality can lead into abnormal implications if left unchecked was just…true.

The call timer kept ticking as I looked at the screen.

We're still connected, but the line was already silent.

Maybe she had already fallen asleep.

Or maybe she didn’t want to be the one to say goodnight first.

I left the phone plugged into the charger, face down on the study desk.

The apartment was quiet again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like loneliness.

I sat next to the kotatsu and started reviewing again.

I never imagined that a day this bad would turn into something memorable just because the most beautiful girl in the class fell asleep while on a damn phone call.