Chapter 19: Things We Only Say Without Words (VI)

By the time the sky slipped from amber to black, the smoke had settled into the corners of the park, fading. The last customers had long since disappeared, their laughter trailing off into the night like loose threads.

The stall stood half-closed, its sign creaking gently in the evening breeze.

I had to drape myself with a scarf and gloves to prevent myself from shivering entirely as the temperature probably dipped below ten degrees.

I crouched by the propane tank, checking the valve, hands moving on muscle memory. Honestly, I wasn’t really paying attention to my surroundings.

After Watanabe-san left, I started asking myself the question. Once, twice, thrice—and I was still asking myself the same thing.

For the 217th time in four hours.

And for the 217th time, I didn’t have an answer.

Did it already surface on my face? Is my sweat falling from my temples without me noticing? Does my hands shake every time she gets near?

I closed the cabinet containing the tank and stole a glance towards the low brick ledge, and she was still here.

Contrary to earlier, she had no textbook or sketchpad on her hands.

Her arms were just casually crossed and was observing the stall from a quiet distance.

I gave my phone a brief look, it was already 8:12. At this time of the day, at normal occasions, she would've already disappeared and I was left alone cleaning and wondering if she can hear my silent good-byes.

Now, she showed no signs of leaving just yet.

She's clearly waiting for me, and she's not even frustrated by my purposeful delays.

I understood that this wasn't a coincidence anymore.

For months, I turned a blind eye to this so-called routine we have established, and never pressed the meanings behind it.

I wanted to, but I'm afraid so.

Kousaka-san's honesty is what makes her so dangerous.

If she was to say something that I wouldn't like, she would say it anyway.

Kousaka-san wasn't blunt, I just realized.

Not badmouthed either.

Everyone who hates her? They were just born in a collectivist society.

One that never anticipated the raw honesty in a Frenchwoman’s mouth.

That's why I never hated her. I might be clumsy as you call it, but my understanding of things doesn't just skim through the surface.

I stood and began folding the canvas awning.

My sigh was visible, reminding me of the changing seasons.

The night had an unforeseen chill to it, so much that when a breeze blows past, it settles into my bones.

And I anticipated the worst when I heard that lazy gait of hers.

She stopped beside me.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly.

I didn’t answer. I just curled my hands into tight fists.

“Not the usual quiet,” she added. “You’re thinking.”

“…That obvious?”

She crossed her arms.

“Obvious enough. You're standing next to the stall like you're waiting for it to answer something.”

I was already caught. There's no way that I'm escaping this moment.

I let out a slow breath. The question burned the back of my throat.

I couldn’t hold it anymore.

“…Why the bench?”

She blinked. “Huh?”

“The bench you always sit on.”

She cocked her head. “I like benches.”

“Don't dodge it.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Her grin twitched, retreating. “You’re not letting me off the hook tonight, huh?”

“Not tonight. I just came to realize some things.”

A beat passed.

And she let out a conceding sigh.

“It's the only place where no one tries to interfere with my peace. The public library is crowded, the school finds me weird, I don't have the natural ambience and breeze at the condominium. This park contains all the conveniences I am looking for.”

“Then why come every day?”

Her eyebrows sharpened.

“Isn't that enough of an answer for you?”

“And you just happened to come when I opened my stall every time?”

No reply.

“And leave when I close up?”

Still no reply.

I took a slow breath. My heartbeat was steady, but everything else was trembling.

“Do you time it?” I asked.

She didn’t deny it.

“Did you know,” I began, “how many times I thought you hated me?”

A gasp escaped from her lips as she lifted her glance towards me, startled.

“How many times did I thought I was just background noise in your day?” I continued. “The quiet dango guy you passed by. How many times I wanted to talk to you, but never did—because I thought you didn’t care?”

Her fingers gripped the hem of her hoodie tighter.

“I’m not good at this, at people…and feelings. And knowing when to let someone in.”

She said nothing.

“So tell me,” I went on, “why did you take care of me when I was sick?”

"Its—"

I cut her off.

“Why do you clean my apartment like it’s your job?”

The silence she gave was imposed rather than earned. It was like a mutual understanding that I am here to let out everything that brewed in the days since I offered her my umbrella.

“Why do I think of you when the sun goes down and my chest feels a little emptier than usual?”

Her eyes widened—but her mouth stayed shut.

“Why do I look for you in the crowd without realizing it?”

I swallowed hard.

"Why did I ever poked my nose into the fights I should've avoided if not because of you?"

I gritted my teeth.

“Why do I feel warmer just knowing you’re just ten meters across, even if you don’t say anything?”

I hate that my tears have started to well up in my eyes.

I wasn't supposed to be this vulnerable and brittle. No one had warned me that being honest to another person could be this consuming.

“Why…” I trailed off as I wiped my tears. “Do I feel like I won everything the time you pocketed the wrapper of the first dango you bought from me?”

Maybe right now, I'm not in the task of hearing her answers.

I just wanted to spill out my questions and whatever the hell I am feeling right now.

“What are you…trying to imply?” she finally voiced out.

Kousaka-san wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was staring off toward the bench—the one she always returned to. Maybe searching for a version of herself still sitting there.

“I don’t want to keep wondering,” I said softly. “I don’t want this to be another part of my life that slips away without ever being understood.”

Because there was someone before that given me the safety I needed, the warmth I sought, yet disappeared without even a whisper of goodbye.

I'm not talking about my parents.

I'm talking about a friend.

A friendship that could've been more.

One year has already passed.

Yet it still haunted me today every time I wanted to step beyond friendship.

I turned fully toward her now.

Whatever these feelings mean, I think it's time to confront it now.

A feeling I thought could never reach the spaces in my heart I filled with hatred and atonement.

A feeling towards the woman that knew no kindness, not a receiver, and not a giver.

That woman, a golden rose with thorns made of ice, with her petals countries apart.

But in the rain, I crossed that distance.

In the silence between raindrops, I found her.

We met where words never did.

I offered her an umbrella. She handed me happiness and purpose to live another day.

She drew the world when I stopped believing in it.

“Kousaka-san, I…”

For years, I've searched for someone that can understand the sadnesses I've long endured.

Someone who could give me a reason to laugh, someone who would listen in silence as I speak my heart's desire.

And I never knew that this ‘someone’ was just 10 meters across.

I only meant to offer an umbrella. I didn’t mean to offer my heart.

Maybe I’m not enough. I’ve got nothing but a dango stall and an empty apartment. But for what it’s worth, every moment I spent near her felt like home.

So why...

You said you were fine being alone. I used to say the same thing. But maybe we were both just lying to survive.

You said that you’re just my imagination, and you’re not the person I think you are in my head.

But you’re the person that is, and always in my head.

I know this.

There's nothing left to confirm.

If I was dreaming of being the best version of myself, then I don't have any more excuses towards it.

“I like you, Kousaka-san.”

No thunder cracked. No gust of wind interrupted.

Just the weight of the words, hanging in the air between us.

“I like you,” I repeated. “And not out of obligation. Not because you’re the only one who ever noticed me. But because you’re you. I don’t care if you leave, or if you stay, or if you forget all of this tomorrow. But right now…I need you to know that someone out there really, truly loves you. And that someone is me.”

I admitted it.

I finally admitted it.

Still, she didn’t speak.

And that silence…

That silence hurt more than rejection.

My voice faltered at the realization, but I didn't dare stop.

“I didn’t expect anything. I just…needed you to know.”

I gulped.

“I know that this is twisted. I know that this is selfish. But I can guarantee that these feelings developed not because you showed a broken person like me basic human decency. It was because you understood me.”

She looked down, clearly contemplating about what she's hearing.

“When you left the phone call hanging, whether on purpose or not, I understood that you needed somebody's presence to overcome that night. This deduction might fall as delusions, but I still thank you for thinking about me first. I wanted to give that presence to you always, but I know that I will end up wanting more of you, so I had no choice but to do this…”

It wasn't you filled the gaps that my parents left when they abandoned me. I already filled it out myself—and it's time for me to fill yours with my presence.

“And if you're hating me now, then I'm sorry for liking you.”

Was this silence from her meant to be a signal of an upcoming cruel honesty, or just a form of acknowledgement? Either way, none of it would make me feel better.

“...”

Her lips moved, just barely—but it's enough to make my shoulders jolt. It was a foreign sight after the long stretch of silence she maintained.

“…You always know what to say, huh,” she whispered. “Even when you say you don’t.”

“No. I just…meant it.”

She finally looked up at me again—but her expression was unreadable.

“I need to go,” she said.

I opened my mouth at the realization.

“Wait, I’m sorry! I shouldn't have said it! I never—”

“It’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

My arms wanted to reach her. But she already turned, leaving it hanging in the space she left behind.

Her figure dissolved into the blur of the city lights, and I stood there, wondering if I’d said too much, or said things inadequately.

I took a few steps back and slumped against the stall's frame.

The feeling of loneliness and struggle I haven't felt for weeks since we interacted started surfacing again.

And between these relief and suffering, there was a question that lingered.

Is confessing one's feelings when it cannot be contained anymore ever right?

If so, why do everything that I did feel so wrong?