Chapter Text
Marriage.
Women from a traditional swordsmen clans were always bound to be married off, and you were no exception.
Soshiro Hoshina, your betrothed—former—was two years younger than you when you were introduced to him. You were fifteen, and he was thirteen, yet it did not stop him from becoming your confidant.
He would be the one to tell you when your servants would come so you could get down from the tree on which you were swinging your legs back and forth. He would turn a blind eye whenever you behaved in a way that was not considered lady-like. Whenever he visited you, he would be the one to sneak you food from the kitchen of his estate. He would give you a portion of his desserts, which his father bought for him and his brother from his missions. He would lie to his elders whenever they asked about the progress of your so-called relationship, and you would do the same with yours. He was more of a friend than a lover, and neither of you complained.
In fact, the two of you—such young teens forced to partake in a tradition neither wanted—were so pleased with the arrangement, so much so that you became so close with him more than the extent people would expect from the kind of pair you two were. You were so close with him that you have told him so many times about how you felt lost in your own home. You have told him how soft you were to hold a sword and succeed the swordsmanship technique of your own clan but were too hard to hold a needle for embroidery, which was an expectation for the women of your family to do. You have always wanted to know why in the world you never belonged, and he, too, shared the same sentiment.
Yet, despite your initial thought of you being satisfied with how things were with him, you eventually faced the reality that would soon cage you as soon as he turned eighteen.
You did not want to become his bride, let alone the mother of his children.
Of course, your parents were shocked to know that.
How come you never wanted to share most of your life with the boy, when you have spent three years being happy with them?
They asked you to reconsider—they begged you to proceed with the engagement—and you tried. You tried so hard to like the notion of giving up your individuality to become the perfect wife. You tried practicing the wedding traditions, holding the needles and threads for the second and third times, softening the roughness of your edges, smiling with your teeth hidden by your painted lips, growing your hair, singing the songs passed down from the former brides to you—you tried so badly, yet you still were lost.
You desired to step foot on the outside world, and Soshiro was the biggest obstacle.
He was the biggest obstacle, and he was not even a bad person—no, never.
He was kind. He was friendly. He was considerate. He was lovely. He was lovable. He was a good friend through and through, but the life he would give you was not something you wanted. The kind of life associated with being married to him was all too heavy for your shoulders.
So, you ran away from it all.
He was a few minutes from turning seventeen when you left him under the moonless night sky of ice-filled November—it was the eve of his birthday—and he was barely awake when he saw you leaving the Hoshina residence with your things. That time, he was standing on the stone pathway with his feet bare and freezing, while you were clutching your bag—the one you secretly bought by selling your jewelry—in front of your chest securely.
The air was sharp inside his lungs, but the pain that settled along his chest hurt a lot worse.
He might act like an airhead at times, but Soshiro was no fool of a young man. He has heard of your loud voice shouting about your pleas for your parents to cut off the engagement. He has been aware of how much you loathed being a part of your clan. Even when he pretended not to understand the depth of your hatred for traditions, he knew.
He knew, but he thought that he could change your mind.
"What's so bad about bein' my wife?" he asked you that fateful evening.
He said your name, and guilt came crashing down on you.
Your feet desired to walk closer to him. Your arms desired to embrace him. Your body wished to shield him from the flakes of snow that were slowly falling down on top of his head. You wanted to care for him, because he was your special person—he was your closest friend—but doing so would mean you would need to give up the sliver of freedom that you were steps away from achieving.
You did not want to stay in a place that fed you with doubts about your purpose in life. You did not want to stay where you would despise the days you would spend after marrying him. You did not want to be around either his family or yours. You wanted to escape. You wanted to fly away. You wanted to clutch onto that ability to choose for yourself. You wanted to live without your worth being dictated by how many children you could produce. Most importantly, you wanted the memory of Soshiro remain as something that gives you hope.
You did not want to hate him. You did not want to hate being around him. You did not want to hate the idea of seeing him. You did not want him to become the reason of your demise.
You did not want to resent him; it would be better for him to resent you instead.
"What's so good about it?" you croaked. "Tell me, what's so good about it?"
He was so young, but so were you.
Your words were still blunt. They were harsh and almost unfeeling. They lacked the care needed for that situation, but even when you pretended to be tough, your knees buckled. Your heart ached, and your conviction wavered.
"Please, come back to yer quarters," he whispered.
His voice was so weak, so meek, so powerless. It was such a stark contrast to how he usually talked to you.
However, you did not let it stop you.
You knew that if you were to let him drag you back, you would never ever find the courage to do this the second time.
"You come back to yours."
You turned on your heel and stepped away from him.
The wind then blew. It was strong as it tried sweeping you backwards and back to him, as though the nature itself was stopping you from doing what you wanted, but you persisted.
Meter by meter, you walked away from his residence.
Foot by foot, you started leaving the life you were destined to have.
Inch by inch, you took the path no one wanted you to take.
Centimeter by centimeter, you gradually broke his heart.
"Don't leave," he said, this time with a louder voice.
Before you could say something, you heard him sniffle.
You froze on your tracks. You were more than petrified.
You heard his silent footfall approaching you—he was in front of you, his eyes tearing up.
"Soshiro," you huffed in anguish, "don't do this."
He grabbed your sleeves. The smile he has constantly worn was long gone. He, instead, was donned with a wince, while water formed and flowed along his still supple cheeks.
"Don't leave me here alone," he mumbled.
You have never seen him cry before, not even when every single thing was against him. He was the most resilient person you have known, and never once did he ever cry. Soshiro was not the kind of person who would use waterworks to get what he wanted. He has always pushed though with a smile, so seeing him so ruined—it gnawed your insides.
At that moment, you knew you have hurt the boy beyond comprehension, but you also knew that you could not simply give it all up.
"There's so many things I want to do in my life," you said as you found yourself crying as well, "and I don't want to be just your wife."
There were so many things that you have yet to experience. There were so many things you wanted to try. There were so many things, and you knew that being shackled by marriage at such a young age was not one of those.
"Ya can still do whatcha want even if yer married with me."
He would never force you to do the things you did not want. He could adjust to whatever arrangement you wanted. Once he was of the right age, he would leave the estate if that would enable you to have the kind of life you would never have otherwise. He has placed you on a pedestal, and he never regretted that he did. He was more than prepared to do whatever you ask him to do.
He would do everything, just do not leave him.
"You don't understand."
"Then, make me understand."
Your existence was one of the few reasons he could get up in the morning. Your approval was something he constantly looked forward to receiving, because you were the only one he had in his life who never tried undermining his dreams. Your rejection was the least thing he expected to receive from you.
"Even if I were to spell it out for you, you still wouldn't understand where I'm coming from."
You sighed, your lip wobbling. You cupped his jaw, and as your last act of kindness, you kissed him by the forehead.
"I can." He hiccuped. "I can learn."
You shook your head and wrapped your arms around him, your bag acting as a barrier that stopped you from ever embracing him fully.
"Turn a blind eye for the last time, would you?"
To your relief, he let you go—or, perhaps, he was so sorrowful that his arms went limp—and that was the last time he has ever seen you.
After that, you rebuilt your life from scratch.
After traveling prefectures away from Hyogo with necessary documents and pocket money, you lived under the roof of your scruffy apartment unit while working as a waitress for an equally scruffy restaurant downtown. You bought the kind of clothes a lady like you would never wear—used, cheap, thrifted—and ate the food that as deemed so lowly your servants would never even dare of putting on their own tongues. You learned to trim your own hair and do other things to cut costs.
Life outside was hard, but every paycheck was rewarding.
The food might be either too salty or too bland, the windows might be broken, the water might be cold, bedding might be hard, the clothes might be itchy, but nothing was worse than living the kind of life you never wanted. You had the freedom to choose the food you would eat, the brand of detergent—hell, you could choose the color of socks you would wear—and no one was there to remind you of the duties you need to uphold and etiquette you needed to maintain. If it were not for the decision you made that evening, you would never, ever be able to take the two-year vocational course that taught you all about Defense Force Operations.
After then, you were able to move out of your apartment unit. The food became a little better; the salt was just enough. The bedding was slightly softer, and there was air-conditioning. You were able to enjoy hot baths again, and the shampoo and soap they issued were fragrant. The things other people might consider simple, to you, they were a luxury.
All of the good things you currently have were all due to your hardships and sacrifices.
Finally, you have proved mother wrong—you were able to become happy without needing to have a child and a family.
"I wonder how's she," you muttered.
Your mother, ever the traditional woman, almost fainted when you first told her about your desire to study outside the estate, and to you, it was a fond memory. Her paintingesque expression melted into a putty of rage, and even her husband has not been capable of stopping her rage. Your father permitted you behind her back, though, and for sure, she still blamed your education as the reason why you ran way.
"I want a drink." You nodded to yourself. "I'll get a drink before bed."
You picked up the empty packets of cookies on your desk and chucked them all in the bin under. Standing up, you lazily stretched your back, grunting softly in the process. You made your way to the biometric time clock just by the door and lined your right thumb on the scanner.
Just as soon as you have timed out, the door opened to your day-shift colleague, who still had her bed hair.
"Good morning, [Surname]," she groggily said on her way inside the Operations Room.
"Morning."
You were about to exit the room when your superior called your surname.
You looked over to your shoulders, saying, "Yes, Miss Okonogi?"
She quickly jogged over to your direction, smiling brightly as if not tired.
"You'll be transferred to the morning shifts."
"Morning shifts?"
You raised your eyebrows, trying to act all unconcerned.
"We didn't have enough Operation officers during the morning shifts, so we had to randomly select four officers to transfer to balance things out."
Despite knowing how terrible you were in the morning, you hummed in understanding.
"Sure, sure."
Whether it was written all over your face or not, she added, "Don't worry. You'll return once we finish the physical tests next week."
You laughed quietly.
"I wasn't worried in the slightest."
You were genuinely fine with changes like this. After all, it was a part of your job description. Besides, you were so sleep-deprived that it really would not matter if you were to be put during the evenings or mornings—you would still be lacking sleep.
Bidding her goodbye, you went straight to the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor.
"Ah—"
You forgot to get yourself a drink.
"Track field, it is."
Although it was already five in the morning, the skies was still dark and the breeze was chilly. Hugging yourself, you searched for a coin in your pocket and went to the track field, where most of the vending machines were located.
You looked for the one that offered hot drinks and inserted the coin inside the slot, pressing the button for the variant you wanted. You pulled the tab of the can and let the steam warm your face.
While you drank in peace, you saw a silhouette of a person standing under the lamp from afar.
"Hm?" You tilted you head. "Training this early?"
You squinted your eyes and bobbed your head forehead.
"Bowlcut?" you said under your breath. "Purple hair?"
Your eyes widened—the can fortunately did not fall from your hands.
"Shit."
As subtly as you could, you turned around and ambled to the opposite direction. With steps attempting to seem as natural as one would pace worrilessly, you left the field before he could even learn your presence—you hoped that he did not know you were there.
In the first place, he would not know that you were part of the defense force all along, because you were working directly under the Operations. The only ways for him to know is if you were to tell him directly, or if he were to ask the Operations for your records. However, it would not even cross his mind to do the latter to begin with as long as you refrain from having him see you.
"Ha," you exhaled.
It was hilarious, really, how you claimed you have done nothing wrong, yet you felt so afraid about the idea of him seeing you.