Chapter 2: Florence Nightingale (Part 3)

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 drifted off. 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 thickness 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. “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?"

Hey, don't you smack on my futon. It gave me comfort for the last 6 years without excuses. It survived emotional hurricanes with me. It is the only reliable adult presence in my life.

A stupid thought 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 she really is from another planet.

“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.”