Chapter 27: Actions Warm Enough to Melt Winter (V)

The words came out before I could measure them. But it didn’t matter anymore. This wasn’t a moment for precision or poise, to calculate for the best philosophy or recommendations for saving. It was for truth. And the truth was this—

If I let go of her now, I wasn’t sure if I could ever get her back again.

I could feel her breathing, shallow and careful, like the weight of existing might shatter her.

“If you’re going to jump tomorrow…” I whispered, voice clipped and hoarse, “…then at least let me go with you.”

She stiffened.

The storm answered first, harsh and steady on the balcony railing, in our hair, on the sleeves of my uniform soaked through. Then came her voice—barely above a breath.

“…Why would you say something that cruel?”

“Because I meant it,” I said, forehead resting on the curve of her shoulder. “Because if you go, then what’s left for me?”

She started to turn in my arms, slowly. Her golden hair that smelled like lavender clung to her cheeks, framing her like some sad, lost painting.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I was surviving and not living. Before I met you, my life was gray and repetitive. It's damn quiet in the worst way. I thought that was just how things were meant to be.”

Her lips parted, but I didn’t let her interrupt.

“When you sat in front of my dango stall every day, when you finally looked me in the eyes, when you cursed at me in French, sat beside me, laughed for the first time although weird…I realized I didn’t want to go back to how it was before. I don’t care if we haven’t said the right words, or if I screwed up everything with that confession. But I’m here now. You’re here now. So don’t…”

I shut my eyes. “Don’t do this.”

The tears pricked before I could stop them.

“Don't just barge into my life and disappear suddenly.”

“Why?”

“I’m not used to being dependent on someone. But I needed you, Kousaka-san. I really do.”

She looked away, her chin trembling.

“…You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You weren’t just planning to leave for France.

You were planning to leave altogether.

"I do." I said. "I mean it. If you're going to disappear, take me with you.”

Her breath hitched.

And she whispered, “…I was just curious what it would feel like to not wake up the next day. That’s all.”

“That’s not something to be curious about.”

"Because I promised myself I wouldn't cry anymore."

Her voice cracked, fragile and raw.

“Everyone always hated seeing me cry. The last time I cried, they sent me like a defective package to a country that is worlds away from what I'm used to. Crying was a weakness, they said. Ugly. Annoying. And now I can’t even cry without hearing their voices in my head scolding me and telling me that it's not allowed.”

Her fists clenched against her sides.

“So I made a decision. If I had to vanish one day, I’d do it quietly. No traces. No mess. No pain for anyone else.”

My hands tightened gently around her waist.

“You’re not a problem to be solved,” I whispered. “You’re a person. You matter. Especially to me, and the pain you’d leave behind.”

"...What?" She looked at me, startled. I forced a broken smile.

“Because I’d feel it, Kousaka-san. Every damn day. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re fading. I’ve been there. I’ve lived inside that silence. And it’s terrifying.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because someone stayed for me when I couldn’t stay for myself.”

“…Tsurugi?”

I nodded slowly. “She helped me remember what it felt like to matter. And then you came—and I remembered what it felt like to love.”

She shook her head. “I hated people like her. People who pried into my business like they knew better. Like they had a right to fix me.”

She swallowed hard.

“I hate it even now.”

“Then why aren’t you pushing me away?” I asked, quietly.

Silence again.

She stared at me, bewildered by her own stillness. Her arms hadn’t moved. Her body hadn’t recoiled.

Even her glare had softened.

“I don’t know…” she whispered. “I really don’t know.”

“Then let’s figure it out,” I said. “Even if I’m just a parasite clinging to the only warmth I’ve ever known.”

Her eyes shimmered.

“…At least I stayed by your side.” I finished.

She laughed, the sound watery and uneven.

“You’re such a crétin.”

“I know.”

“Maybe don't change just yet.”

And then she collapsed into me.

Arms around my back. Forehead pressed to my collarbone. Her breath against my chest, uneven and wet with the tears she swore she wouldn’t shed.

The rain hadn’t let up.

If anything, it fell harder now—tiny needles pricking the skin, its constant patter replacing every word that might’ve filled the air.

We were still wrapped in each other's arms as if it was the only thing saving us from the cold December rain. Our breaths fogged, but no words passed between us.

I reached into my pocket without thinking.

My fingers brushed against damp fabric, then the paper—creased, soft with wear. The incomplete and ominous calendar page I just ripped earlier.

December 19.

A date she thought no one would care about.

I laid it over slowly, then lifted it over her head and held it there, absurdly, like a child offering a leaf to shield someone from a downpour.

She blinked as she pulled away. “What…are you doing?”

“Protecting you with an umbrella,” I said without inflection.

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not an umbrella.”

“I know,” I replied. “But I figured it might work. In a metaphorical sense.”

Registering my absurdity, she exhaled, too short to be called a laugh, and reached out and gave my chest a small, dull punch.

It didn’t hurt. But it grounded me.

“You’re weird,” she muttered, almost like an observation.

“Probably.”

Her eyes softened, far from the one who just looked burdened by staring at the edge of the world.

“Are you supposed to ask who I am?” I said after a moment.

“What?”

I didn’t respond. I kept holding the paper above her head with a smirk, thinking it would somehow reverse everything if I just pretended hard enough.

She stared at me, confused at first. Then her gaze drifted to the soggy piece of paper.

It clicked with her as she let out a soft gasp.

The subtle change in her face—the widening of her eyes, the twitch in her lip as if she was about to say something but decided against it.

She stared a moment longer, trying to figure out if it was okay to play along.

Then she stepped closer.

"Who are you?"

I smiled inwardly.

The bench. The rain. That first day. When I had offered my umbrella without a single question.

Back when we were nothing to each other, but something enough to share rain.

When I treated her like she wasn’t strange or intimidating or broken.

But unlike before where she eyed me with those blue daggers, like I've rewritten the rules of the world, she was wearing a smile and her eyes were softer and kinder.

"I'm..."

"Answer me. What are you doing?"

“You’ll catch a cold.”

“Worry about yourself.”

The first chuckle came from mine, realizing how ridiculous this was. Words can't describe that the person that I love, the most stiff and unrelenting bombshell Kousaka-san, has decided to play along with my childish games.

“You’re a dirty bug in the proximity of my personal space."

“It’s because you’ll get soaked.”

"I’m aware," she said. "Go back."

"I will. After you take this."

With cautious fingers, she touched the calendar page and took it, holding it above her own head with a small, awkward motion. A paper umbrella in a storm. Completely useless.

It was comical. Utterly meaningless.

And yet…it was everything I yearned for.

We chuckled together. Quietly, at the absurdity, at the ease with which things seemed to be falling into place.

It lasted for nearly a minute, and I wiped my face soaked with rain and tears as I tried to catch my breath.

“Thank you, Kousaka-san…for staying.”

“Stop being cheesy, crétin. You're not making any progress.”

And seeing Kousaka-san's smiling face, laughing softly at my silliness, made my heart swell with affection.

She ripped the paper and the pieces fluttered immediately against the gale, melting into the city lights in front of us.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was sacred.

Then, she looked up at me and whispered, “I don’t have the fake umbrella to return anymore.”

I didn’t answer.

She looked down, eyes tracing the wet hem of her shorts, then back up again.

“Well then,” she said softly, “I’ll return something I can.”

I met her eyes.

And before I could speak, she surged forward.

Her hands curled into the back of my neck, pulled me down, and her soft lips met mine with fire, hesitation and everything in between.

Kousaka-san kissed me with trembling urgency, like her body was afraid it would forget how to do it tomorrow.

She was a person dying to speak a language she was never allowed to learn, and this was her first sentence.

I didn’t kiss back right away.

I think I was stunned. Or afraid that if I moved, it would break.

But then I did.

This is what I've been waiting for all this time.

To let myself taste what being loved is like, although without a proper confirmation.

Wanting to receive her pleas for warmth, I closed my eyes and returned it with an equal passion. She held onto me tighter—arms locked around my neck like the rain might sweep us away if she didn’t.

We staggered, losing balance, and tumbled down together. The cold of the balcony tile seeped into my spine, but I didn’t notice. Her lips were still on mine, searching me, asking me to play with it.

We stayed like that, soaked and stupid in the rain, as if this moment was all that existed. 

No expectations. No worries about tomorrow.

Eventually, we parted, breathless, her weight still in mine, gazes held together.

“Bon anniversaire,” I murmured.

She blinked. “Your tongue still lacks the softness to speak French.”

"Then, can you soften it up?"

Realizing what I meant, her expression twisted not in disgust, but in embarrassment and curiosity as she turned away.

"Are you saying that we should do a French kiss?" her voice shrank into a whisper.

"It's my first time being kissed like that, might as well make the most of it, isn't it?"

She snorted. "I didn't know you're a playboy, you emotionally constipated redhead."

"You're making assumptions without any proof."

The blush on her face intensified and I grinned, despite myself.

It felt good to see her like this—being shy instead of frowning, soft instead of being apathetic.

And within a blink of an eye, my lips were enveloped with hers once again. Her soaked hair fell down on my face like a golden curtain, concealing whatever we're trying to do with ourselves.

And I kissed her back, because I'd already lost tonight, and I didn't want to lose anything else.

Just like she had proposed, her tongue sought mine, although unsure and clumsy at first, as though it didn't understand what we were doing. But it kept asking for permission, patient, uncertain, waiting for me to respond in kind.

I pulled her closer, deepening our embrace, pressing myself against hers more firmly than ever.

She exhaled through her nose, shaky but not unhappy. “I always thought my first kiss would be under fireworks.”

“No fireworks in this weather.”

“Wouldn't make a difference either. I wanted it by the Eiffel Tower.”

I brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek. “The rain and this balcony suits us better.”

A beat of silence.

She didn’t disagree and just laughed curtly.

She finally got up and laid beside me, our backs soaking in the rooftop cold, our hands still searching for each other like we weren’t ready to let go yet.

And in the quiet, I thought:

If she ever truly believed she was nearing the end of everything—then I would pull her back.

Back to that bench.

Back to the rain.

Back to the start of everything.

Back to the day a stranger offered her an umbrella—without asking why she looked like she wanted to disappear behind the sketchpad.