The Lemon Ice Cream Paradox

Yes, I was definitely alone. I could’ve gone after her, you know? Like in one of those cheesy romantic movies. I could’ve also gone back home to end it all for good, like an indie film director who doesn’t know how to wrap up their story.

At this point, it was just the tree, the empty street, and me. Going to the town center had lost its purpose—or maybe it hadn’t, but right now, my brain was hammering memories to the surface like there was no tomorrow, and they weren’t exactly good ones.

Lemon. That was the flavor I picked that day—not because it was my favorite, not because I even liked it, but because lemon ice cream has this way of puckering your face with its sourness, and that always made Lyse laugh.

It was strange. Without realizing it, I’d started moving again, even though I’d decided to scrap the job hunt.
The walk to the center was as oppressive as ever.
No, that’s a lie.
It hadn’t felt like that lately.
Too much silence—I didn’t like it anymore. A bird or two chirped among the trees, melodies to some, nails on a chalkboard to me.
It’s pathetic to admit, but the only sound I was waiting to hear was the one that used to annoy me the most.

The streets started to widen, the noise growing louder—traffic, the crowd. More and more people, even as the sun began to set.
I’d forgotten a small detail that separated me from them: people don’t just stay alive—they live.
Funny, right? Bet no one’s laughing.

I ended up in front of the shop that used to belong to Lyse’s parents. It had been closed for a long time—not just because of her death. The Kanzai corporation had set up in town shortly before I left, slowly swallowing up all the local businesses. You know how it goes—big corporation always beats the local vendor.

Something inside me ached, not physically, but in a way I couldn’t explain. And though I’m not a masochist, I’m the kind of person who’d rip out the stitches of a wound, as if it defined me or reminded me that I always find comfort in suffering and uncertainty in that little thing some call happiness.

How do I make this hurt more?
Why make it hurt more?
Why not make the final blow something different?
Some jerk with a superiority complex would say that if you’re facing a wall, you’ve got to tear it down, even if it means using your head.
What was I really looking for? To break the wall or to smash my skull?

Instinctively, I rang the bell of the apartment next to the shop. Even if no one was there, I could tell someone still lived in it. On the first-floor balcony, a small bonsai willow peeked through the railings.

It seemed the crooked tree followed me wherever I went.
In town, they said it was just a willow like any other, but decades ago, it became popular among suicides, making its branches lean to one side.
It was almost like it was inviting us all to end the party—the tedious, bitter, endless party.

I tried to hang myself from that tree twice. The first time, I was alone.
The second time, I was with her, and as always, she ended up convincing me to put it off for another time.

“The branch is gonna break, don’t be an idiot, okay?” she’d said, watching me climb.

“This tree’s been holding up suicides for over 60 years—what’s one more gonna do?” I replied, sitting on one of the branches. I tied part of the rope to it and started the knot.

“Hmm… What’s my name?” she asked.

“Death?”

“That’s a term.”

“I didn’t know you had a name.”

“I don’t…”

“Then why the question?”

“What would you call me?”

“Annoying brat.”

Her cheeks puffed out, and she kicked the tree. I had to cling on like a scared cat to keep from falling. I didn’t even have the rope around my neck yet.
Even then, I wasn’t sure if her reactions were genuine or just something she mimicked from all her time watching people.

“Alright, alright… fine… let’s see… Aranara.”

“That’s awful,” she replied.

“Then pick one yourself. I’ve got more important things to do,” I said, finishing the knot. “Besides… why do you want a name?”

“When I become human, I’ll need one…”

I think that was the first crack inside me.
That was the first time I used “her name.”
She was talking to me about life.
I was focused on how to make the fall break my neck so I wouldn’t die choking.

“How are you planning to become human?”

“Call it… a conditional resignation.” She said, tapping her index finger against her forehead, as if searching for the right words.

“Conditional on…?”

“On your useless body staying alive and not dangling from a tree—or any other weird ideas you’ve got in your head.”

“You never told me why you’re so obsessed with resigning.”

“I have the right to remain silent. Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law,” she said, gesturing as if adjusting invisible glasses. “Now get down from there already, will you?”

She wanted to live; I wanted to die.
It seemed simple, didn’t it? Until moments ago I thought so.
I didn’t know there were wrong reasons for wanting to live.

I was so lost in my head that I barely noticed Lyse’s mother standing in the doorway.

“I can’t believe it… you’ve really grown up,” she said, wrapping me in one of those hugs that could cut off your circulation or slice you in half. “It’s been so long. How have you been? What are you doing here? When did you come back?”

How have you been?
A hug?
Was this really how she was greeting me? Where were the screams, the urge to hit me? Why was she talking like she was happy to see me?

“Come on, come inside, don’t stay out there.” She took my hand and led me in.

“No, really, I just—”

“We can talk inside if that’s what you want,” she said as we passed through the small entryway hall.

The inside was just as I remembered it. Maybe time had stopped for them too.
Maybe thinking I was the only one suffering was the most selfish thing.
No, just the stupidest.

“I know it’s been a while…” I said, hesitating before sitting in the living room but giving in eventually. “But… I want… I want to apologize.”

I can assure you, if I’d put the effort I used to say those words into killing myself instead, I’d have been dead a long time ago.

“Apologize?”

“I mean… ten years late, does it still count? …I’m sorry about what happened to your daughter… I’m sorry I didn’t do anything about it…” I spoke with my head bowed. It was the only way to keep my composure in that moment.

She sat across from me without saying a word. I could only feel her watching me. “So that’s why you came. You and your mom moved away days after it happened, so I guess it’s good we’re talking about this now…”

“She insisted on it,” I replied, knowing full well that, even as a kid, I was completely on board with getting out of there.

“If you’re expecting me to say it doesn’t hurt anymore, I won’t. If you’re expecting me to lash out at you, I won’t do that either. All I can do is keep moving forward and wonder why you haven’t.”

“That’s kind of a stupid question, don’t you think?” I snapped, my tone probably harsher than it sounded in my head. “I… She drowned, and I didn’t do anything about it… I just ran.”

“You ran to find someone to help.”

“Still… I ran instead of helping her myself.”

“Listen, there was no way a kid your age could’ve lifted the weight of those rocks. You both would’ve ended up the same way, and that… that wouldn’t have been what Lyse wanted, would it?”

“Rocks? What rocks? I don’t know what you mean,” I asked, finally looking up. My hands were gripping the edge of the table like I wanted to leave a mark in the wood.

Her expression changed, wrapped in a pain that clearly would never go away, yet her voice still sounded like a mother talking to her son.

“Lyse knew how to swim—did you forget? She drowned because her foot got caught between the rocks in the river, not because she didn’t know how to swim. Neither she nor you had the strength to move them.” She paused, a pause that felt like it lasted a century. “You really don’t remember anything? When they managed to pull her out of the water, you stayed there until the ambulance arrived.”

A chill ran through me, threatening to make me pass out. I clung to the table like it was the only real thing in the room.
What was she talking about?
Why did it feel like I was inside a bitter joke?

I got it. Sometimes, the worst enemy is yourself.
My mind could’ve blocked out a thousand memories, but it chose to turn them into slow-acting poison, like an IV bag filled with acid.

Even so, ten years of guilt don’t vanish in an epiphany.