Love

The stars were beautiful tonight. As Gika and I laid there, in the grass of that clearing, bathed in faint azure light, I didn't, couldn't, think of anything else. So entranced was I that even the cold dew sticking to my back failed to get my attention. Only when I closed my eyes, forcefully stopping myself from focusing on this sight, did I manage to regain control of my thoughts. 

A painted hand. Why did it evoke such strong feelings of nostalgia in me? A fuzzy memory returned to my mind. It must've been when I was around 5 years old in my past life. At school, we were finger painting, as well as tracing the outlines of our hands with pencils. The finger paint felt somewhat similar to the dew that was sticking to my hand as I recalled this memory. It was that moment in class where I saw my hand immortalized on paper where I realized I didn't just like painting, I loved it. It was magical. Like most of my classmates at the time, I liked drawing. But unlike most of them, I continued with it even as we grew older. I pleaded, begged my parents to go to art school.

"You won't find a job like that, honey," they said, "but you can always continue drawing as a hobby!"

I believed them. I didn't speak up, because I thought they knew best for me. When I went to study history, they didn't say anything against it. When I chose to specialize in the history of art, they were silent, and so I believed this was the correct path to a happy life. I assumed that they knew what would bring you a good job and what wouldn't, and that they were correct in telling me that finding a well-paying job should be my goal. They weren't. They weren't perfect. I should've known. My last life was a failure, so when I got a second chance, I desperately wanted it to be perfect, but now…

"Gika," I said, "do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Tisoni ku." She answered.

"Why don't you speak Magranpolian? Can you not or do you not want to?"

"Rosu."
"What does that mean?"

She held up two fingers.

"Two?"

She gazed expectantly at me.

"The second one?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Soni ku!" She said.

"But why?"

"Tiru chu kataki."

"Meaning?"

She grabbed my hand and pinched it.

"Ow!" I cried out.

"Ketaki." She replied.

"To pinch?"

"Tisoni ku."

"To hurt?"

She nodded.

"So are you saying speaking Magranpoilian causes you pain in some way?"

"Soni ku."

"But you can do it if necessary?"

Gika stayed silent for a moment, her face showing clear discomfort before silently muttering something:

"Y…y…yes.."

Hearing her speak Magranpolian caught me off-guard. Even under enormous pressure, she hadn't spoken a single word in my language.

"Why?" I asked, "why does it hurt?"

She answered with silence. Even in the faint blue light, I could see her face slowly turning red, before she buried it in her hands. I immediately regretted beginning this line of questioning, as it seemed to have just turned Gika uncomfortable. I wanted to do something to comfort her, but I couldn't think of anything. If I could just… understand her, then maybe I'd know how to make her feel better. 

If I could understand her…

"Gika, did you… did you have trouble speaking when you were young? In this life, I mean." 
Gika looked up at me somewhat caught off guard, then nodded.

"Me too," I said, "it's probably because we had a previous life. Adult minds aren't primed to learn a language like those of young children are. I tried my best and ultimately I managed to become fluent, but only really because my father pushed me to do so and I didn't want to disappoint him. You see, every time I failed and made some basic mistake, I felt ashamed. But you, you don't seem to care much about what your mother thinks. Could it be that you were, are, too afraid, just like I was? Too afraid to be misunderstood? Just relying on the things you know, forcing others to engage with you in your own domain?"

Gika had a stunned look on her face for a couple of seconds, before she regained her composure and averted her gaze. 

"You…" I stammered, "you don't have to be perfect for me, okay! Two people can't perfectly understand each other anyways. That's simply impossible. But we can try, best we can! I want to see your art! I want to hear what you have to say! I want to get to know you! Because… because… I really like you!"

Tears began to streak down Gika's face. A soft smile became visible. 

"I'm also not perfect!" I continued, "but maybe, when we are as close as possible to understanding each other, we can work together as one! I'll help you, and you help me, partners in crime! We will get through these tests together, figure out what is happening with the Municipio, finish Paolo's masterpiece and afterwards we'll make the most beautiful paintings the world has ever seen! If you accept, I can promise you that! We can be perfect, together!"

I breathed heavily. I'd disturbed the peace of the quiet forest night with my unhinged rant, the mood permanently shifted. I felt my own eyes stinging. This outburst of emotion had made me tear up without even noticing. As my mind cleared the previous emotions away, regret entered their place.

"I- I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't mean to, you know, be so direct about it, and- and I certainly didn't mean to shou-"

"I… I love you." Gika said slowly, word for word. She laughed. I laughed. We watched the stars once more in silence. No more words needed to be said, we understood everything between us. 

It was brief, perhaps not even worth mentioning, but just before sunrise, just before we went back into the city, we kissed.