Chapter 2: Florence Nightingale (Part 1)

After giving my umbrella to Kousaka-san, I stayed for a bit longer under the shade of my dango stall. The tarp overhead fluttered whenever the wind struck it, sending droplets running down the edges like tiny silver beads. I watched them fall, pretending they were what kept my eyes busy.

I kept telling myself that if I dared to look in her direction—even for the tiniest fraction of a second—she would somehow sense it. She always carried that sharp, animalistic sort of intuition. So I did the safest thing I could: I avoided her silhouette completely.

The rain didn’t let up. As if it would listen if I begged them to.

So I waited, staring at the camphor tree above her bench, tracing the shape of each trembling leaf and counting them in my head—one to ten thousand—because that felt easier than acknowledging whatever unfamiliar warmth was crawling up my ribs. It was a useless, functional wasting of time. A ritual of denial disguised as observation.

At the 10,156th leaf, I decided to stop. That's when I noticed that the gold-spiked porcupine turned artist had already vanished.

Strangely enough, I felt a little inexplicable throb on my chest. Ridiculous. It shouldn't matter. People come and go. She owed me nothing, and I expected nothing.

With that thought, the desire to go home came in full throttle, so I packed up and left.

The first step beneath the storm was enough to send me chills—the cold water slammed against my shoulders, seeping through my uniform until the fabric clung to me like a second skin. My socks squelched with every step—a rhythm embarrassingly loud in the empty street.

I didn't mind the things inside my bag being soaked or anything. I already covered them in a plastic wrap, the only thing I should worry about is stumbling over the wet road surface. Besides, there were other things I was concerned about: the lack of sleep from all the nights I'd spent studying and preparing the dango mixture, the cold, the fatigue, and even more worrisome yet, my inability to stop thinking about what I did.

Oh, come on, Itsuki. This isn't part of your plan. Practice what you preach, would you?

After several minutes of walking, I decided to drop by a pharmacy to buy medicine just in case I would fall over dead before I reached the apartment. I can already feel the faint heaviness between my eyebrows, and I don't even know if it's because I still have so much work undone or this is a prelude to losing a fight against fever.

I wrung out my uniform and shirt at the back alley and dried myself up. I pushed open the pharmacy door, the little bell above it chiming with the same tired ache I felt in my throat. A gust of cool, disinfectant-tinged air drifted out—and it's such another critical hit to the already chilling feeling I'm currently in.

Great. Even the air conditioning is telling me to go home.

Inside, a few students and adults were browsing in the rows of neatly arranged shelves lined with boxes of medications. They seemed too absorbed in their own worlds to pay me any attention as I made my way slowly between the shelves, trying to find the medication I needed.

"All of this because of a single umbrella…" I muttered to myself. I'm not angry at myself for making such an impulsive decision. In fact, it already sunk in, and all I could feel is this fuzzy and satisfied sensation, like, yeah, similar to that jazz music playing in the background of the store.

Is it worth it? Yes. Definitely.

Did it feel like I traded my immune system for her convenience? …Also yes.

After a few moments, I reached the OTC section after passing a couple of office workers browsing nutritional supplements and a pair of students chatting on the vitamins section. There, I spotted some generic ibuprofen that I knew I could use without getting any side effects. I grabbed a box, turned it over to see the price, and sighed.

798 yen isn't a joke. But in my defense, hospital bills aren't either. A life lived in a pan balance, huh?

"Obaa-chan, that one… the red one..." a voice said from beside me and I immediately turned around to see the source.

There was an elderly woman on the maintenance medicine section, standing on her toes, with her neck strained upward, hand trembling as she reached for a bottle on the very top shelf. Her cane leaned uselessly against the shelf beside her, and next to it stood a small boy—maybe six or seven, clutching her sleeve.

"A little bit more… obaa-chan!" he said, pointing insistently to the shelves and jumping slightly as if to cheer her.

"I know, dear… I just…" her fingers brushed the bottle, but her hand wavered mid-reach.

That wasn't my problem, at least if I'm carrying my default philosophy. Strangers are absolute trouble, involvement with them is trouble, and trouble ruins the delicate balance of a life I’ve carefully curated to avoid getting hurt. Even after all these years, that instinct clung to me as stubborn as a bad habit and I can't afford to trust them anymore.

But well, it's not about trust, it's about her incapability. I am young, and I have the strength, speed and endurance to waste on unnecessary movements. Elders don't have that luxury.

I once read in an old essay that the elderly aren’t just people with wrinkled skin; they’re the walking archives of the world. That made me realize that we, the younger generations, are not self-made.

Look at the chair you sit in, the road you drive on, the constitutional freedom you enjoy—these were not conjured by our generation. They are the accumulated capital of our elders' sacrifice, labor, and perseverance. They fought the wars, built the institutions, endured the hardships, and paid the taxes that funded the schools where we learned to challenge them.

We have the value of time, and they have the value of wisdom. And yet, most of them are discarded into nursing homes, treated like burdens rather than the foundations they are.

So standing there, watching that old woman straining for a bottle she couldn’t reach… I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see it.

I stepped forward with my shoes thudding against the glinting tile floor.

"Um… excuse me." My voice came out as flat as I intended. “Would you like some help getting that?”

The grandma blinked, and our eyes met. Somehow, I am seeing my future in her washed out irises: an old recluse with no direction at all, slackened skin, hollow cheeks, brittle hair, with pensive stillness, frozen in a rocking chair. That is a profound, even terrifying, realization: it is the final chapter we will all face.

"A-ah… sorry, young man. I didn’t mean to be a bother…" as she pulled her hand back, flustered.

"It’s no bother. I’m tall enough to reach it anyway. Might as well make myself useful."

The kid stared at me like I had descended from the heavens specifically to solve their crisis. I reached up easily and grabbed the medicine box, placing it gently into the grandmother’s waiting palms.

"There you go."

She let out a relieved breath. "Thank you. Really, thank y—"

The bottle slipped from her shaking grasp, shattering upon hitting the ground. It happened so fast that I didn't even hear the cracking sound.

For one brief moment, we both froze. The old lady stared at the floor, dumbfounded, as the brown liquid crept to stain the white tile. I can see her features gradually turning pale as she struggled to comprehend what just happened, but as soon as the pharmacists arrived at the scene, she recovered.

“Are you alright?” I blurted out, hands ready to catch her if she stumbled.

"I—I’m so sorry—! My hands… they sometimes—" Her fingers curled inward as if ashamed of their own instability.

"It's okay," I told her before she could bow again. "This kind of thing happens."

"No, no… young man, I should be the one responsible for it…"

Before she spiraled deeper into apology, I turned to the crew and asked for cleaning materials.

When they responded in kind, I worked on it almost immediately, wiping the spilled contents and taking care of the glass pieces. The little boy beside her watched me carefully, holding his grandmother's sleeve close to him.

After confirming that the glass shards were removed, I stepped closer to the pharmacist who was standing next to us.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Can I pay for it?"

The old woman tugged at my sleeve.

“You don’t have to if it wasn’t your fault—”

“It’s fine. You're trembling and I should've known better.”

Yeah, I shouldn't have handed it to her.

I was guided back to the counter where another pharmacist was waiting behind the register. She eyed me over her glasses with a slight hint of concern on her face but scanned the bottle anyway and the price immediately flashed on the screen.

1,278 yen. I can feel my wallet physically recoiling.

It's too much for a bottle of Kakkonto, but what choice do I have? I'm still partly at fault for that accident.

Still, I slid the bills forward. The pharmacist replaced the damaged bottle with a fresh one and bagged it neatly.

When I returned to the woman, who was now sitting in the waiting area, she rose up slowly with the help of her cane.

"You bought it…?”

“Un,” I nodded.

“Oh dear, oh dear… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to waste your money—"

She kept mumbling apologies and now looking like she was on the verge of crying.

"It’s not wasted. You need it, and you'll use it eventually. I'm glad that I was able to help.”

The kid tugged her sleeve. “Obaa-chan, say thank you properly.”

"Hush, you,” she said gently—then bowed deeply. “Thank you and sorry for the inconvenience I caused, young man. Truly. You have a good heart.”

“Uh…”

Heat pricked embarrassingly at my ears, making me exhale to regain composure.

“I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

"Not everyone does that, you know? Not everyone has a gift of kindness like yours."

Well, that was true. We both knew it. The world today didn’t have that many people willing to pay for strangers' accidents. Or people who see the value in elders.

I turned around and took my leave.

The kid waved at me enthusiastically as they shuffled toward the register.

"Bye, nii-chan! Thank you!"

“Yeah. Stay healthy so you can take care of your grandmother.” as I lifted a hand awkwardly.

When the automatic door closed behind me and the bustle of the world outside entered into my ears, only then did it hit me:

…Did I actually forget to buy the medicine I came for?

I looked down at my hands. I did forget—though I managed to buy a spare tablet of melatonin to force a deep sleep.

I sighed. "Of course. I'm trading my life again for goodwill."

Between the cold creeping into my bones and the lingering scent of disinfectant, I suddenly felt very, very tired. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, hoping that no similar incident would happen if I visited the market a bit later.

***

I barely got the door shut before I dropped the bag of discount rice on the table. As usual, the apartment greeted me with silence, a fact that I've been experiencing for the last six years.

"I'm home," I greeted the empty apartment.

My legs were already shaking, and I needed to hobble over the door frames just to fumble 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. I hope that the night breeze will dry it by morning.

Leaning on the bathroom sink, I splashed water onto my face. The broken mirror in front was brutally honest. It showed my crimson hair drooping like damp string; my hazel eyes dull and tired; and skin a shade paler than it should be.

"All because you had to play the hero," I muttered to myself.

When I walked out the bathroom, the room tilted, but I could see it: Everything in the apartment was gray or empty.

I had 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.

On the doorway, there is only one pair of rubber shoes. Look at the 'living room' and there's a bare kotatsu. Beside it, a broken fan. At the 'bedroom', a rotting futon. In the 'kitchen', a rusting fridge humming like it was trying to apologize for being almost empty.

All of it 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 and sorted the laundry I'll be dropping on a laundromat.

Throughout the chores I did, my body was 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, it will pass.” I muttered before taking in the sleeping pills I bought earlier.

I brought the bowl of lukewarm water beside my futon and started wiping the cold—which didn’t help.

That prompted me to get a thorough check so 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.

39.6 degrees.

I'm a walking fireball.

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

It's my fault though—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.

As if I have a choice. It's not like healthy foods like fruits and vegetables come with a low price tag. The situation goes like this—eat a set of healthy meals, then get hungry the rest of the day.

Now, I’ll ask the question society is uncomfortable with:

Is being healthy economical?

I guess not.

Life in the upper class is defined by choices, below it, only sacrifices. It’s safe to say that only rich people can afford to be healthy, and the poor will only end up in the struggle pit.

Time is money and health is time, they said. A lower-income worker for example, often holds multiple jobs or works long hours with no sick leave. Being healthy requires time—time to cook, time to exercise, time to sleep, time for preventative check-ups. I kind of follow the way they are thinking, where every hour spent on health is an hour not spent earning money. Sickness is, ironically, the only break we can sometimes afford, though its cost is devastating.

And there's no escaping that unfair cycle.

Fifteen minutes passed and the heat on my forehead was only growing worse. I decided to sink to my futon to cool down. I curled in it, pulled the ragged blanket over my shoulders, and shut my eyes against the dead grey ceiling above.

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

When I closed my eyes, the pictures already long hidden stood clear. There came the memories.

A tender mother's hand caressing my youthful face, her warm fingertips tracing the shape of my cheek. She also hummed a lullaby about the cold mountains at Aomori, and the snow woman residing in it.

“If a lady of pale silk asks you to follow, if she looks at you with eyes of endless winter, you must run,” she would sing, smoothing my hair. I was also told not to stare at her beauty, or she will breathe into you and make you one of her frozen flowers.

By the time I had calmed down, there would be the scent of miso drifting in the kitchen, 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. ‘Breathe slowly,’ he always said in that cold voice, to take control and stop crying, because everything will be alright after I sleep.

Did it, though? I wouldn’t be in this situation where I’m halfway to rotting to death if everything went according to my expectations.

Expectations of a life that belonged to someone smaller, someone softer, someone who expected the world to hold him without letting go.

The memories 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. I'm letting 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.”

It was just a whisper, but might as well be a declaration of war against my own thoughts. 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.

I did everything right. I did everything that a child could do to be worthy of being stood and cared for.

Then the ones who were supposed to stay, left. As if I was the one who broke the promise of secrecy and they were the snow woman that melted into a white mist, vanishing through the chimney, never to be seen again.

Why didn’t they say anything? Why didn’t they look back? Why didn’t they decide I was worth the trouble of loving?

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’m not someone who slips away in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. I’m not someone who leaves a child behind and calls it salvation.

I braved through it all, even though I'm stretched thin and my world could tear apart at any moment.

"..."

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 let them, I was too tired to wipe them away.

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

“I hate this,” I breathed out. “I hate feeling like this. I hate being like this.”

And yet… even knowing all that… even hurting like this… I still wish for something.

“I wish…”

The word caught in my throat.

“I wish someone would be kind to me… even once.”

And the dam walls were split open, spilling all the things buried inside of me, all the feelings locked up deep within, the regret, the fear, the loneliness.

Everything.

All of it.

There wasn’t enough space for it all to fit inside, nor energy to contain it.

For the first time, I mourned not just from the sadness of their abandonment, but the darkest days I endured after they left. The lonely meals eaten beside a humming refrigerator. The birthdays with no candles, with no voices singing my name.

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 in deep waters 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. I had no permission—and I had to sign adulthood’s contract before understanding what freedom meant.

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.

“Sleeping… would fix it up,” I whispered, to no one.

It was a small, fragile yearning, left floating in the quiet of my worn-out apartment, with only the rain to hear it.

And as if it was a cue, the exhaustion kicked in, dragging me to a darkness that seemed like a place of comfort rather than a place of agony.

***

It must have been hours since my forced drift off. For me, it felt like a small breath between two distant thoughts. As I stirred and willed my limbs to move, I was overwhelmed by the scent of dashi granules and the soft rumble of boiling water.

I don’t remember cooking before I fell asleep. Was it just my imagination?

The sensation made me want to open my eyes, and when it did, the ceiling blurred in and out of focus—and when I turned to the kitchen windows, something unfamiliar was blocking it.

Has the world shifted? At least ask me for my permission, no?

There was a woman, based on the defined curvature of her torso and the ampleness of her snowy hips.

The snow woman from Aomori? Of course not. She was wearing a Shonan High School uniform with sleeves rolled up to expose her flawless wrists. Crowning her was the long hair gleaming like a golden fountain.

With 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. The more enigmatic phenomenon is that she’s 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 ‘oops’ of a woman put back the soul I was missing for a split second. I snapped up before my brain could catch up. Heart drumming. Fever forgotten.

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.

There were no words to describe this particular situation. I searched for them anyway, scraping the back of my brain for something intelligent, something normal, something that could explain why Kousaka Akari—the human incarnation of reclusion—was standing in my kitchen.

I get it, I wished for kindness earlier… but not in this form...?

I kept staring at her in complete disbelief, and the only thing that came out my mouth was:

“…Kousaka-san?” My voice croaked like gravel, bleary even.

"Finally alive, huh?" She paused mid-fumble, turned slightly, and then back to the sink again.

“Yes… is this even real?”

“No. I'm just your fever dream.” she retorted thereafter.

Her voice was too flat to be warm, but not cold enough to be distant. Stupidly enough, I pinched my skin to confirm if this is just a fever dream.

“...Why are you here?”

It's not like she just graduated from her indifference and decided to visit a sick man out of nowhere.

“I’m returning something.”

She gestured vaguely at the black umbrella hanging next to my damp uniform.

I frowned. "I thought you'll return it tomorrow?"

"I'm impatient, and I don't want extra luggages."

“…So you broke into my apartment?”

“I knocked. I have manners."

"Eh..."

"And you didn’t answer. You think I'm just going to stand outside like a creeping stalker?”

“No… that doesn't sound like you." I sighed, and my head antagonistically agreed on her logic.

In the back of my head, I tried to picture it though. I feel like I'm getting glared upon right away by her.

“You see… I was dying.” I mumbled after a brief pause.

“Good to know you left the door unlocked. That’s on you.”

“Didn't anyone try to stop you from coming into the building?”

“Nope.”

That would only mean one thing…

“The CCTV on the second floor hallway isn't working so it's justified if I ended up seeing you decaying.” she answered with what I was thinking of.

I blinked despite myself. She had a point. I don't even want my neighbors or the landlady stumbling upon my decaying body. I can't even clean my own room, so why leave such a mess as a parting gift? Despite the state of my unit, I'm still strict about hygiene, see.

And well… since when has Kousaka-san cared about the other tenants' well being? She doesn't even bother giving acknowledgement to mine or anyone else’s existence.

“...Still, that doesn’t explain the groceries or the fact that you’re cooking my own porridge disaster.”

Hearing that, she finally turned to face me.

“I was sketching in a coffee shop near the city hall, but the menu was horrendous and the crew wasn't exactly welcoming. I wanted to move to another coffee shop nearby, preferably near Sannomiya Station, but I saw you walking in the rain like you're carrying the weight of your existence. I followed you instead.”

Well… that's boldly accurate in a sense. But if I'm going to ponder it to the miniscule detail, the description of her actions left me unsettled.

What does this girl think will happen once she steps inside my apartment? Does she think society isn't bundles of judgemental creatures that can easily make a fuss of false conclusions through small acts done by others alone? Does she think I'm just a typical nobody and incapable of doing harm to people suddenly barging in? I am a boy who lives in premeditated plans and constant awareness, because of those experiences. I am also healthy by nature, so I can make advances if provoked.

I'm relieved that she's an innocent woman with decent intentions though, and not someone who'd try to use me to advance some stupid plots (even if, in retrospect, that's exactly what the rumors around her had suggested).

It's strange that a beautiful girl like Kousaka-san will follow somebody to their home just to return something. I mean, if she could just stop me somewhere down the road or in the train station, that would be a more convenient thing. That being said, despite the ridiculousness of how things turned out—I was glad that she chose me.

“I dropped my things for the meantime and went out again to buy ingredients. I did not expect this but, the provider guy who gives away umbrellas in the rain can't even provide himself food in stock.”

My fevered brain worked slowly through the logic. "...So you broke into my home, spent money and cooked unsolicited rice porridge and miso soup?"

SHWICK.

She brandished the kitchen knife and looked me dead in the eye. “I didn't break into your home.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t play with that.”

I flinched, and my hands curled around the futon. My first instinct was to apologize for my oversight, run for my life if needed. But she seemed to realize my distress as she snorted before lowering her weapon down and used it to dice green onions rather than flaying me open.

"But correct." as she poured the onions into the pot with deliberate sass. “Die ren.”

I sat up with a groan.

"Don’t take this the wrong way but—who the hell just walks into someone’s home and starts cooking?”

She tilted her head, mock-thoughtfully. “French people.”

“What?”

I knew that Kousaka-san was half-French, but I thought that she was raised locally, maybe in the high-rises of Tokyo, and landed on Kobe for a vacation.

“It roots from the culture. In Marseille alone, every stranger colonized kitchens, even if it wasn't theirs.”

That answered my question. Although it left me in complete disbelief.

“…Sounds like burglary.” the words slipped from my mouth before I could stop it.

“Only if you, Japanese people, say it. If you experienced what it’s like to live in France, getting barged in by chefs feels like a blessing rather than theft.”

“That would put me in a culture shock.”

She resumed stirring the pot using my wooden ladle—my poor, loyal ladle that had seen more action today than I had all week.

“But I see no problems barging in here. It’s not like I could steal anything valuable in this kind of apartment.”

“Your insults are on point.” I sighed, but still mildly irked. Her hits were always right on the jugular, sheesh.

"Am I wrong? It feels like your apartment would die of malnutrition on your behalf.”

Her eyes swept the room, huffing mockingly in the end.

“Look at those rotting walls, look at your shelves, no heater, no microwave, and look at that futon.”

“Everything but not the futon, please. It's still usable.”

“Mon dieu—it looks older than both of us combined. Are you planning to die mid-winter?"

A stupid feeling nudged me out to a thought of playful wrath, and I voiced it already before I could consider my words properly.

“So you'll stop trespassing.”

"Va te faire foutre, Shimizu."

“What the heck was that?”

She's been phrasing words recently that I had no way of understanding. But this one, it held something sharp and dangerous in tone. It really sounded like a war crime or something personal, something that can initiate bar fights, maybe.

“I’m greeting you ‘good afternoon’, but in French. I love saying that to our neighbors back in Marseille.”

I tried sitting up, groaning like a man twice my age. Well… I can’t, given how heavy my head feels right now.

"You’re lucky I’m too weak to stand, or I’d surely find a translator myself and file a complaint.”

“Stay down,” she said immediately. “If you faint, I’m not dragging your corpse to the hospital.”

“That’s… reassuring.”

“It should be.”

But her ears were a little pink when she said it. Or maybe that was just the steam from the pot, who knows.

I swallowed, trying to steady my voice. “Then… can I ask something without you stabbing me with that knife again?”

“I didn’t kill you the first time.”

But for me, it feels like she could. Not with the knife—but with her bare fists and feet.

“…Who cooks for a guy she barely knows?”

This time, she froze.

"Who gives his umbrella to a girl he never talks to?" she rifled back.

Touché but…

"...You clearly needed it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You looked freezing as hell. Tell me I’m wrong.”

It seems that I hit a pressure point as she sighed in surrender.

“So, maybe this is equal?”

"...Pretty sure cooking a meal is worth more than just offering an umbrella."

It takes more effort than the latter. If she’s saying that it’s ‘equal’, I must disagree. That's not equality, because we didn’t have the same exact input, but maybe equity, because we both achieved our aim of comfort by giving our specific needs.

"Then consider this interest. I’m generous."

"Debatable. I don't think Frenchwomen are that generous."

She smirked, and that's one more surprising than this golden-spiked porcupine in my apartment.

For a long moment, only the clatter of kitchen utensils filled the silent air, and it's oddly soothing for a sick person. She moved with strange familiarity in a place she had no business being in. Like she’d barged into so many kitchens that this one, too, simply accepted its fate.

That leaves me with a question: Are French people really like this?

The wooden ladle tapped gently against the pot. Steam curled upward, fogging the air between us. The scent of ginger and miso drifted out, filling the apartment with something warm—something my ailing body had been starving for outside of food.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, watching her quietly. As we were both waiting for the meals to cook, Kousaka-san glanced around the room and hummed, hiding the edge of a smile behind her hair. That elegant silence reigned supreme until she decided to speak up.

"You really live alone in this dumpster, huh?"

"Yeah. It used to be a five-star hotel but ran out of budget. With that, the two directors have stepped down from their office, never to be seen again."

She ignored the joke. Her eyebrows were scrunched, as if testing what she heard.

"...How long?"

"Since I was eleven."

Her eyes flicked toward the old medicine cabinet, the bathroom with a chipped door, the stack of unwashed laundry, then the rusted futon frame. When she heaved a tired sigh, I took it as a signal that she finally believed me.

"...Putain, je ne peux pas imaginer vivre dans cette merde..."

The Frenchwoman rolled off her tongue again with that expensive sharpness.

Every time she switched to that alien language, it felt like I was getting scolded by a goddess or insulted by a diplomat. My brain couldn’t decide which. Part of me wanted to nod, pretend I understood every word like a sophisticated, worldly man.

Deep down though? I think my neurons are waving tiny white flags.

"Yeah. I also love Paul Cezanne."

She blinked, probably startled by it.

"...I sketch, not paint."

“Sketches are manga-fied paintings.”

“Ton humour est catastrophique.”

She spun around with a huff, and returned to working in the kitchen.

Damn, thanks for the reprieve. I did not sign up for this bilingual assault. If she keeps doing this, I’ll eventually have to accept that I should study French online.

“Sigh…”

The impasse felt more relieving than anything, because I was able to seep in the feeling of borrowing peace from the highschool girl before me. I had never been with anyone in this room aside from my parents, and now, I'm with the most beautiful girl in the school and she was cooking for me.

Plot for a movie, right? Healthy me would've considered this moment as delusions taking over rationality.

Dusk was already in full swing, so I reached out for the bedside lamp and turned it on. A little source of light against the darkness I've battled for years.

After a few minutes, with her usual blunt grace, Kousaka-san announced, “You look like death reheated. Eat something before you flatline.”

She turned around to face me and handed me two bowls containing miso soup and rice porridge. After that, she sat cross legged from a considerable distance, as if sitting on the bare floor won't leave stains on her brown checkered Shonan High School skirt. Even though it was an inviting gesture, I swallowed it in the name of prudence.

The small bowl stared back at me, steam curling from the rice porridge. Normally, I would refuse to try anything cooked by a stranger—but I’m a witness to the process, so I’ll make an exception today.

“Don’t spill it.” she mocked. “I’m not cleaning this moldy floor.”

“I wouldn't. You've spent enough energy to deal with another problem.”

I mustered my strength to lift a finger, to take the spoon, but my arm felt like it would collapse any moment. I don't know if that's the fatigue caused by fever, or the weakness brought by hunger. The last thing I remember was eating that already cold and soggy ramen yesterday in the school cafeteria during lunch break.

“Hey, uhm… can I tell you something?”

“What is it?”

“I think… I think my limbs are on strike.”

Here I am, talking about stopping troubling her and now I just presented her another set of problems.

She shook her head, not from rejection, but disappointment.

“Then open your mouth. I’m feeding you.”

My eyes shot open as I looked at her, mouth slightly agape, in complete disbelief. I tried to shape it into something like a joke or sarcasm but no, I didn’t misheard. It was real, and as she tilted her head in annoyance.

“Are you really—”

“Do you need a countdown, Shimizu? Three, two—”

“Eh—no, no, no. I can—I just need a minute—”

“One.”

"Wait, what kind of roleplay is this? Are you suddenly wanting to realize my kinks?"

I think I'm astounded at my sudden raw honesty. For me, nothing beats a sharp and beautiful woman that spoils you with her implicit kindness, if that's what she calls it.

"Don’t make me smack you with the ladle, Shimizu. We're too old to beat around the bush."

Femme fatale.

Swallowing once, I let out a quiet laugh as she held up the spoon with theatrical disdain.

It felt ridiculous. This wasn't just a dream. This is Shimizu Itsuki getting spoon fed by the most beautiful girl in the school he's just watching across his mitarashi dango stall.

I thought that she redrew the lines immediately after I stepped on it. Now, she's the one crossing it without hesitations. I have avoided extra interactions with people for a long time, and never would I expect it would be Kousaka-san being next to me today. She wasn't the far-off beauty anymore, and the fact was surprisingly welcome.

And just like that, she scooped a spoonful of rice porridge and brought it to my mouth. Umami flavors reached me, amplified by the hunger I've been enduring for a whole day. There could be dramatic music swelling in the background, or time slowing down. But we both didn't have that.

Because we're not expecting anything from each other.

This is just callous efficiency, from two people who refuse kindness.

But I'm glad that someone stayed and made it for me.

I chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the blanket covering me. My thoughts scrambled like static, and something in my chest tensed and didn’t let go.

"It's good, actually."

"Okayu and miso are two simple meals, and whether I'm an expert or not would make a difference." she replied nonchalantly.

She continued feeding me slowly, and each time she did so, a wave of comfort started washing over me. I felt my throat relax bit by bit; my muscles lightening one after the other; my vision growing less blurred with each bite and my eyelids gradually anticipating a long, deserved sleep again.

"Did you already take your temperature?"

I nodded.

"What did it say?"

"39.6 degrees. But I can feel it gradually easing, don't worry."

She gave me a quick glance, but didn’t comment on it. It was as expected, considering how strangers usually didn't pry on personal things. Though I wasn’t sure if I should be concerned about her not giving any concern.

But that quickly changed.

Without warning, she reached over to the dusty medical cabinet I just threw beside my futon earlier and picked up the thermometer I’d used earlier.

“Give it,” she said.

“Give what?”

“Your temperature, I’ll check it myself.”

"Eh? No need,” I said quickly, suddenly feeling like I wanted to scurry away from her. “I already told you. It’s going down.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You expect me to trust your half-conscious self?”

"I know you're cynical towards other people, but I'm telling the truth."

But logic didn't seem to matter here, and neither did my words. She reached toward me, lifting the thermometer slightly as if preparing to place it under my arm. Instinctively, I pulled back, clutching the blanket closer to my chest like some kind of flimsy shield.

After a few moments of our back and forth, she seemed to realize that I'm not going to surrender myself. Kousaka-san's hand froze mid-air. And in the worst of all timings, her eyes narrowed into thin slits, eyebrows sharpening in an oddly perceptive way, like she just pieced something together without me saying it.

“…You don’t want me to touch you,” she concluded flatly.

".........."

The thermometer clicked lightly as she toyed with it between her fingers.

"Should I take that as a yes?"

That caught me off guard, honestly. I guess she really can read people's minds now.

“No,” I muttered, “but I might die from embarrassment.”

She gave a dry, unimpressed look. “Then what? Are you going to combust if I go anywhere near you? To be clear, I'm not trying to seduce you with a thermometer.”

“I know that!”

“Then stop being weird and lift your arm.”

“I’m not being weird. You’re the one barging into my apartment and taking care of me like we’re—”

I stopped myself, but it was too late when I realized my mistake. Kousaka-san already stopped dead from whatever she was trying to do just earlier, and I was left scrambling for the best possible explanation for the candid slip of the tongue.

“Like we’re what?” she asked quietly.

I stared at her. She stared back. And suddenly the fever didn’t feel like the hottest thing in the room.

“Like uh…”

It felt like she wasn't accepting anything less than a justifiable, logical, rational and ethical reasoning.

Lesson learned: don't make far-fetched statements in the face of an authoritarian.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I muttered. "I'm sorry."

“Then let's settle this back and forth, shall we? Else, I'll be the one wiping you down.”

“No, please don't. I surrender.”

In the end, I let her do what she planned. She just held my wrist steady and slid the thermometer into place under my arm, with nothing out of the ordinary happening in between. Real life is mundane, and somehow, has so many ways of disappointing me.

Looking back, the contact we just had earlier made me expect the worst. The last one that touched her stepped down from her classroom representative position, and the last one that joked on her nursed a neck injury for a month.

The Kousaka Akari right here didn't react, which made it worse.

“…See?” she said quietly. “No one died.”

“Give it a minute,” I muttered under my breath.

Getting touched by the opposite gender, the most beautiful woman in the school even, has sent me spiraling into this state of mess. My heart raced, my face was flushed, and my brain couldn't keep up with what I was feeling.

I was just glad that my fever has affected my features for her not to see the uneasiness beneath.

Even as I watched her carefully take another step away, it still feels like something's wrong. Something is wrong but I can't figure out what.

Am I even okay? Maybe I should've stopped her, really.

I'm such an awful person, for feeling like this.

As Kousaka-san returned and sorted the contents of the medicine cabinet, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall. A thought occurred to me suddenly and I decided to ponder over it.

For six years, no one had ever taken care of me. I convinced myself that wanting to be cared for was a weakness.

For six years, no one had ever fed me, especially this way. I wasn’t sure which one of us was more foolish.

Her face might’ve screamed disdain, but her eyes said that she wouldn’t leave me starving and freezing to death.

It was something I wished for ever since I was thrown into this apartment and left me with nothing but dented pride and routines—eat, work, study, pretend, sharp enough to cut emotion out of the equation.

I’d forgotten what it was like to be taken care of. And now, in the middle of this worn-down room, with my stomach growling and my body on the verge of burning out, the gesture hit too deep.

"38.3 degrees. Let's just finish this meal so you can take your medicine."

"Medicine?"

"...Of course. I bought some because just in case you didn't."

Nevermind. I was just glad that she had what I gave up in the name of helping others.

Her fingers brushed my chin accidentally as she raised the next spoonful.

Finally, I looked at her. I saw not the student Class 2-1 distanced themselves from, but just the girl who is helping me in this difficult time. I guess no amount of rumors and of her being a violent delinquent could erase this image of her right here. Kousaka-san was kind. She was gentle, patient and understanding. She treated me well in spite of everything, and despite being a stranger to me in every sense of the word. For me, it's the real her, and there's no denying that.

It's just so strange, finally realizing her actions were genuine and weren't calculated.

In addition, I saw something else hidden beneath those furrowed brows. Concentration? Maybe. That screamed loud enough and it prompted me to dive into the quiet.

Her lips were slightly cracked into a thin line, giving the spoon curt blows as if it's going to burn my tongue without.

A weight pressed on my chest. It’s not about our proximity to each other, it was the way she was acting—as if she’d already done this before. Feeding someone too weak to lift their head. Taking care of someone who must’ve been pinned in a hospital bed.

Those hands of hers… I was witness to how destructive they were, and now, it shows that they were also tender enough to bring a sick man into healing.

I wanted to ask, but today felt like it would be a little bit too personal, so I decided on a safer option: a snide remark.

“…So,” I muttered, clearing my throat, “you gonna leave now and pretend this didn’t happen?”

“Why? Scared I’ll eat all your food while you’re asleep?”

“That, or you’ll beat me up while I'm asleep.”

She snorted. “Idiot. Just rest and don’t—”

“—don’t get used to this?” I finished.

She clicked her tongue, annoyed that I echoed her. But she didn’t deny it.

“…and lock your door next time,” she muttered, finally dropping the spoon back into the bowl.

About the things that I shouldn't get used to… I didn’t know if she meant the food… or her. Anyhow, I didn’t dwell deeper into it. It's pretty understandable since for the first time in a long while, someone stayed beside me when I was sick.

Even if she came in through the door I forgot to lock.

And that thought became the leeway for my consciousness to slip again.

Ah, I wonder how I will react if we return to strangers again tomorrow…