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“Miss Ayase, you’re kinda my only friend.”
Momo Ayase isn’t exactly privy to the social lives of nerds. Call it a character flaw, but she was never one to spend too much time looking into the friend groups of people outside her circle. Sure, she’d notice when people sat next to each other at lunch, or when small groups in the hall would form in between classes. She’s popular for a reason, she isn’t oblivious to everything going on. But those are all average kids who exist around her perception. Nerds are a whole different species on a whole different planet that she hardly ever spots from her observatory.
Before Okarun entered her life, she’d assumed they had their own little ecosystem of otaku friendships. Sure, maybe they sat alone during class, but they’d meet after school and… uh… nerd out with each other? It makes less sense the more she thinks about it. But it always seemed plausible that they had connections and people to enjoy their hobbies with. Less, maybe. But still some.
“Huh?” She tries to lean forward and get a glimpse of his face. That fails. He’s looking in the total opposite direction. “Whaddya mean?”
No one else? Not even someone online? Why is that so hard to believe? Sure, she found him getting bullied pretty badly. And he was alone then. But he has a personality! He has interests. A sense of humor. That’s like the bare minimum for social interaction and he’s actually pretty good at those things when he wants to be.
Okarun flails, “F-Forget it.”
“Hold on, wait.”
“Seriously, let’s just talk about something else.”
It goes silent for a moment. In the interim, Momo goes from mildly curious to slightly worried. She’d only asked him about his other friends because she started to feel bad about taking up all his time. Not that she thought he had a huge social life or anything, but still. It’s been feeling like all she’s done lately is drag him over to her house and force him to help deal with a new Yokai every other day. And yeah, they’re working to solve his missing ball issue, but it’s been weeks. She figured he might be missing out on something after all this time.
But… maybe not.
“Am I really?” She means to ask the question at a normal volume, but it comes out in a whisper. It still does the trick, thankfully.
Even in the dark his flush is easy to notice. He adjusts his glasses as he turns back to face her. It’s obvious he’s trying to avoid eye contact, though the tint of his glasses in the moonlight would make it hard anyway. “Please don’t make fun of me.”
“N-No!” This time, the words come out way louder than she intends. “I’m not, I’m just, a little shocked? I guess?”
“Why?” He’s back to fiddling with his glasses. This time he looks straight down at his lap. “You saw how I was when you first met me.”
“Yeah but, y’know, I just thought that…” The more she talks, the less she wants to keep going. It wasn’t her intention to make him feel bad or embarrass him. “You were just unlucky… that day.” She finishes, cheeks hot and useless. Her voice shrinks again. “Sorry. That sounded dumb.”
He shakes his head once. His hands knot in the hem of his hoodie, twist, release, twist again. The old bench creaks under their weight as she shifts. Anxious and worried she’s just made him feel like a complete loser. It wasn’t her intention.
Cicadas hum somewhere out in the hedges. It seems to bring his thoughts back in. “Maybe I am just unlucky.” The words come out flat. “Elementary school, middle school, high school. I tried, sometimes. Or, I said stuff in my head I meant to say out loud, and then by the time it got to my mouth it felt… wrong.” He tilts his face away, glasses cutting the moonlight into sharp pieces. “No one was into what I was into. I got picked on, so no one wanted to talk to me much. It’s fine. I got used to it.”
She isn’t sure what it is specifically that makes her angry. Maybe it’s the thought of a bunch of dumbass kids excluding her friend on the basis of even dumber social rules. Maybe it’s those words. ‘Used to it’
It pisses her off. So much. But she bites her lip and tries a new approach. “What about online?” she asks, gentler than her thoughts. “Video games? Forums? Debating transformers or alien sightings or whatever.”
“Transformers aren’t—” He stops, sighs. The exhale fogs his lenses for a second. “It’s not really the same. And I… I didn’t really meet anyone or talk to anyone specifically. I just lurked, I guess. Plus, most people into UAPs and aliens aren’t exactly my age or even friendly to begin with…”
The tightness behind her ribs pulls again. All that anger is morphing into sadness. She watches his hands instead of his face, because it doesn't feel like he wants her looking. His thumb rubs over the raw little hangnail he’s been picking at for the last few days. She gets the sudden urge to catch his hands and press them flat, just so they stop fighting themselves. Or… maybe she wants to hold his hand.
He keeps on talking. “Sometimes I used to wish… This is stupid.”
“I won’t say anything.”
“I wished… the aliens would come get me.” He laughs once. “Not to probe me or anything. Just. Pick me up on their way somewhere. Like, if I didn’t belong here, maybe I’d do better somewhere else.”
Her breath stalls. He says those words too cleanly. No drama, nothing to soften it. Just the blunt sound of a lonely kid thinking the world doesn’t want him. It’s depressing. It’s sad. It’s making her want to cry a little.
“You wished for that?” she asks, even though he just said it. The night tilts off it's axis. She wants to reach into the sky and twist it back level. Or, go back a few minutes and shut herself up.
“For a while I thought I was one,” he admits with another tiny laugh. “An alien. It made school easier to understand. Like, of course no one wanted to be friends with me. Who wants to be friends with a different species?”
He tries to make it a joke at the end. It lands like a stone. He shrinks on the bench a little.
Momo swallows and her throat feels lined with sand. It’s hard to know how to even respond to this. She can't go for a big speech. Her brain flings out sentences and she slaps them down, one by one, until she’s left with what actually matters.
“That sucks,” she says, steady and plain as she can. “And it’s not you, it’s kids. Kids are just bastards.”
He huffs, surprised enough to actually look at her. His mouth twitches. “You can’t just—”
“No, I can.” She tips her shoulder into his. He doesn’t pull away. The bench groans its disapproval and then shuts up. “Most kids are bastards. Their brains are mush and their morals are wet cardboard and they run around making messes with them. If you put a good person in a room full of bastards, they’re gonna feel like a weirdo.”
“I don’t know if I’m a good person.”
“Oh shut up.” It comes out soft. She nudges him again. “You are. And you’re funny. And you’re brave, even when we’re literally about to die. You notice things. You listen. You helped my grandma with dinner the other night without being asked and she talks about it like you achieved enlightenment. Anyone would be lucky to be your friend.” She breathes in through her nose, gets the warmth to settle as much as she can. “Especially me.”
The moonlight gives her plenty of cover to say it. She wouldn’t take it back, even in daylight. But she does hide, slightly. Turns her face the other way. Clenches her fist underneath her sleeve. It’s the best she can do under such short notice.
“Thank you,” he says. The words seem careful. Fragile. He coughs, and then chances are a few more. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”
“Yeah well, me too!” She kicks her heel against the bench leg. It’s stupid, but the tension was too much. The cicadas pause and then roar back. “I just—if you’re worried about any of this stuff, don’t be. If you don’t have other friends, that’s fine. You have me. And I’m… I’m not going anywhere.” She makes a face. “Even after we get your balls back!”
“Can we please not talk about my—” He catches himself, a tiny laugh escaping. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you. The point stands.”
He turns his hands over on his knees like he’s checking they belong to him. The porch light throws a yellow ring over the path to her door, and a handful of moths work themselves dizzy in it. Somewhere inside, the clock on the microwave will be blinking the wrong time again. She should fix that. She should fix a lot of things, probably.
“It doesn’t… lower your opinion of me, does it?” he asks. “If I don’t… if it’s just you?”
Her chest aches in a way that’s almost relief. Probably just because him talking cuts through this new layer of tension that’s formed. “No.” she states plainly. ”Why would it? Yeah it sucks not having friends but… like I said, clearly you’re not the problem.”
He blows out another breath. It feels like the bench finally exhales with him. They’ve been sitting there long enough for the night air to pull goosebumps up her arms. When she shivers, he notices it immediately, because of course he does. He starts to shrug out of his hoodie, then aborts the move with a flail like he’s wrestled by the logistics of giving someone your clothes while you’re still in them. That’s fine, the thought alone is enough to stir the butterflies in her stomach some more.
“Okay,” she chuckles, standing and stretching her arms to the stars because she can. “Before you start stripping out here like a freak, let’s go inside. I’ll make us tea or somethin’.”
“I can make tea.”
“I’m sure you can. Come on.” She holds out a hand without thinking about it, palm up, plain.
He blinks at it, then at her. When his fingers slip into hers, it’s nothing dramatic. Warm skin, a little damp from nervous palms, the ordinary miracle of contact. She isn’t sure why holding his hand felt like the right move there. It just did. He rises and they let their hands fall naturally between them. It’s like a rope they’re both holding. It’s just easier to walk like that.
The path back to her door is short. Gravel crunches. A cat stares at them from the property wall and decides they don’t deserve a reaction. At the genkan, she toes off her shoes and sets them straight, and he does the same, extra precise, like he’s trying not to take up more space than his footprints allow. It makes her angry again, and then sad. She wants to tell him he can take up the whole entryway if he wants. That it’s not a big deal. That he’s welcome to just exist here with them, if he’s okay with that. Momo wants to tell him a lot of things.
“I meant it,” she coughs out, half-turned as she reaches for the hall light. “About… staying friends after all this. And, being happy, to be your friend.”
It’s weird. It’s awkward. But she couldn’t say nothing and the silence was just too much to bear.
“I know.” He pushes his glasses up with his knuckle, and his smile is there, small as it is. It’s still real. “Me too. About being happy… to be your friend, I mean.”
Heat climbs her neck, dumb and unstoppable. Such an awkward exchange saying absolutely nothing new and it has her running to the kitchen just to escape it. She switches the light, takes two random mugs from the cupboard, and listens to the kettle begin to think about boiling. It’s too quiet a sound to keep her attention. Instead, it lands back on Okarun, who’s inched his way behind her. He hovers at the threshold between hall and kitchen like he’s waiting for permission. It’s cute. She flicks her fingers at him. “Come sit,” she orders, because bossing him around is easier than letting this awkward energy linger. “Tell me your UFO wish list while I wait for this water.”
He obliges immediately, and it makes her smile. “My UFO wish list?”
“Yeah, y’know. What do you wanna see? How do you think they’ll look?”
“That kinda implies we’re gonna be meeting more aliens…”
“Well.” She raises both arms and looks down at the floor between them. “It kinda feels like we’re destined to be dealing with them so…”
“Alright, alright. My UAP wish list,” he repeats with the changed lettering, like he’s testing her patience or something. Or teasing her. Maybe both. “Okay. Uh… first off, no tractor beams.”
“Agreed,” she says, grabbing the tea bags. “Too cliché.”
“Teleportation feels a little cooler, but even a ramp would be fine. With handrails. For safety.”
“A coo little ramp.” She nods, dead serious. “Do they offer, like, consent forms? Before boarding the ship?”
“If they’re advanced, they should.” He pretends to consider it, shoulders easing as the bit builds itself. “Also, if they could not remove any more of my… parts. That would be ideal.”
“Big ask.” She stifles a snicker. “We’ll have to negotiate somehow.”
Steam starts to curl from the kettle’s spout. The kitchen lights wash his glasses into coins. He seems to watch the way she turns the mug, handle facing his right side so he can more easily pick it up. She isn’t even thinking about it, she just does it. Something in her chest wants to file that away as proof of competence. See? She can take care of small things. She can be thoughtful.
There’s a few moments of silence that’s broken by Okarun’s sudden change in tone. “Do you ever feel like that? Like you might be… not from here.”
The question lands beside the sugar container. It makes her hands slow, and it takes her a few extra seconds to put the lid back on. She didn’t expect him to bring it back up. Or aim it back at her like that.
“Sometimes,” she admits. “Back when I was a kid, they used to make fun of me for the little quirks my grandma taught me to do.” Her hand goes atop her head, and her fingers point up. “This is for protection. I’d walk to school like this every morning, and they’d laugh at me for it. Sometimes I thought my whole family was different from everyone else's… which, I guess, it is. But instead of feeling sad about it, I just got angry at them for making fun of my grandma. Then I kinda got mad at her.”
She takes her seat next to him at the small table. It feels too close. The steam rises from her mug, and she leans in for a tiny sip. “I don’t know. It hasn’t really been a problem for me since back then.”
He hums, not the doubtful kind. The listening kind. She feels oddly seen and hates that it feels like standing under good lighting. He breathes and she takes note of it. It’s a good sound, Okarun breathing here. Is it weird that she likes the cadence?
“So what? You still think you’re an alien or something?”
Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say, because he recoils as if the question personally offended him. “No! Of course not!” She almost feels bad, but he starts to laugh and she internally sighs in relief. “I know I’m not an alien. I think I just suck at being a human sometimes. Or at least, making friends, keeping them.”
“Again, stop blaming yourself,” she scolds, pretending to punch him in his arm. “You’re a perfectly acceptable human! And you’re a great friend!”
He huffs into his tea, which she’ll consider a win. He doesn’t drink yet, just sits in the steam. He wraps both hands around the mug like a campfire. It’s such a small, earnest pose that it gives her the confidence to push things a bit farther.
“If you really think you need help with the friend thing,” she continues, rolling into it before her courage blinks off, “we can practice with beginner mode.”
“What’s beginner mode?”
"It's just a few rules." She counts off on her fingers. “One, when you think something nice about me, you are legally required to say it out loud.”
“That’s—no one does that.”
“I do.” She lifts a brow. “Two, you text me dumb videos even if you think I’ve already seen them. And I know you get some weird shit on your algorithm, I can handle it.”
“I don’t think you want the videos I get.”
“I do.”
“Really?”
“One hundred percent.”
“O-Okay then, you’ve been warned.”
“Good.” The word surprises them both with how firm it is. “Three, you show up when I call you. That one you’re already great at.”
He stares into his tea and half-rolls his eyes. “Okay,” he says finally. “I... get it now. I’ll do my best.”
She hums, satisfied. “Don’t worry, you will be graded on a curve.”
He smiles down at the mug. It’s small, but it's something, and after a few moments, the smile sticks.
She leans her torso into the table, watching his hands again. The hangnail is white and irritated from all the picking. He’s at it again. She reaches without thinking, catches his wrist, just a tap with two fingers. “Stop that. You’ll bleed and then it’ll get infected and you’ll be all dramatic about it.”
“I’m not dramatic!” He does stop, though. His pulse goes quick under her touch. She feels it through the pads of her fingers, an impossible little drum that rocks back through her senses and reminds her of feelings she’s only half-aware of. When she lets go, her own heartbeat argues for a second that maybe keeping contact would have been better. She tells it to behave.
He clears his throat. “If I…” he starts and stops, aiming behind her like it’s easier to speak to a wall then look her in the eye, “you’ll tell me if I’m… uh… overdoing it with you. If I’m clinging?”
She almost snorts, but manages to keep it together. “You realize this whole conversation started because I thought I was being too clingy with you, right?”
He must not have, because his eyes go wide and his cheeks go an even darker shade of red. “Oh… right.”
“You can cling to me,” she laughs without hesitation. “I don't mind. I have a very high tolerance for that sorta thing.”
He ducks his head, still red, and a smile hangs on like it doesn’t know where else to go. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For all of it. I really appreciate you, Miss Ayase.”
The words hit her square in the chest. Enough to make her look away. Enough to get her hands to start fidgeting under the table. But it’s strange. It’s weird hearing that name come out of his mouth. Miss Ayase. It feels too formal. Maybe she’ll work on that next.
She nudges his mug with a finger.
“Just… drink your tea.”