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She holds her breath.
Mountains rise like tumors from the ground as rivers eke out their winding ribbons across the earth. Her house is right in front of her. It’s real big - a large, outdoor patio, even a little koi pond.
It’s spring, and the cherry blossoms have come to greet the dreary, grey sky with their radiance. Rich, brown branches have lost their edges under this light. Instead, they look as if they were carved from an experienced hand, or perhaps the rogue pathways of blown ink on a page.
She still remembers the day she first planted that tree; her mother was praising her strength as she carried the pot to the right side of the stone steps. It was a small tree, then, the anecdote was dull and meaningless to her, then. And she was a corpse. Needles tore into her skin as that infernal engine within her chest seized up. She was alone, again. If her arms were not bound, she would have reached into her skull and given her brain away.
But now, as she breathes out, letting the water vapor flow up like cigarette smoke, her chest is no longer rattling. Air flows far better through her lungs. It’s more familiar. Something scrapes against the stone, and she spins around.
The boy of her dreams is gazing into her eyes, his features clear as day: childish cheeks, dull-brown eyes, curtained bangs. He’s a little taller, of course, and he's obviously a little more grown up; the cheekbones of all the men in magazines will soon start peeking out of his delicate face. He’s flawless.
(Well, she would have preferred a more cheerful countenance, but, deep down, she knew she would never believe it if he were smiling.)
“Kiyotaka!”
Dopamine rushes through her veins as she chases toward the figure. She likes to imagine the world is on her side as the wind billows from behind her, as if nudging her to run a little faster. Her heels stab against the soft, damp grass as she feels her beautiful clothes outmatch her pace.
“Ack,” he responds calmly as she bursts into his open arms.
“You’re here. You’re here…” Giddily, she rubs his cheeks. They’re just as smooth and cold as she remembers. “Not even a flinch, though? Aww… I thought you would be happy to see me~” she teases.
“Indeed I am.”
The cherry blossoms have been dragged off of their branches, and now they float within the waves of the wind, falling slowly as if time itself has stopped to admire the two lovers. Each petal lands slowly, colors wilting just as the sun dips into the horizon. Some stick to her cheek.
“So…” she trails off. Now that she’s convinced he’s real - truly, physically, real - her mind comes to a blank. “...what are you doing here?”
“You were the one who called me here.”
Her cheeks flush as she looks down. “Oh.”
She hasn’t realized it before, but his outfit is perfectly tailored, made of high quality fabrics that seem to glow even without lighting. It’s something straight out of fashion week.
She gasps. “You- “
“Yes. You were the one who suggested the matching outfits.”
“A-ah… it seems I’ve got a bad case of transient global amnesia…”
“No matter.”
“Maybe… m-maybe we should go…”
“Do you have a favorite dish? Perhaps I can help with finding a restaurant that specializes in it.”
“Uhm…”
She never paid much attention to the meals she’d received in the past; everything was flavorful, composed of odd shapes and textures. There wasn’t a single meal she could pinpoint out of the thousands brought into the hospital by her mother. Nor did she particularly care to do so. Until now.
Swallowing, she quickly runs through the recent meals dropped by her bedside table. There’s some ramen, fried shrimp… egg-and-vegetable scramble…
“Takoyaki. I-I, she said it was from the festival… and it was nice and savory…”
“Takoyaki? I know of a local stall near the Shinkansen. How about going there for our date?”
She bit her lip. The date was something she had apparently suggested, yet he was the one guiding her. After she mumbles a quick apology, Kiyotaka drags her onto the car-less, concrete road and begins to jog.
“Wha?! Don’t do that so suddenly, Kiyotaka!” she whines playfully.
Their steps echo in tandem as a panoramic view of the city greets their descent. The nitty-gritty details are obscured by fog, but she can make out a familiar stall in the distance. Or something she thinks matches the description.
A wet sensation hits her scalp, then flows down from her forehead. Her eye catches another droplet as it glares under the sunlight.
“It’s raining…”
As if on cue, the sky opens its mouth as the downpour harshens. The wind returns and now the rain grazes her skin like miniscule bullets. Suddenly, she finds herself and Kiyotaka amidst a storm. He pulls her up into a bridal carry and accelerates into the fog.
When she next opens her eyes, they’re standing in front of the takoyaki stand. An old, chubby man is busy pouring the batter into a specialized mold. Afterward, he turns his attention to the fish and shrimp, seasoning the food generously with salt, pepper, and some unknown sauce she can’t make out.
A jacket is wrapped around her semi-soaked body. She imagines that its warmth was derived from his own body heat.
“Let’s find a seat before our order gets drenched by the rain,” he says. A simplistic, white box is in his hands.
“Of course.”
This time, she takes the initiative and leads him to an overhang. They lean against the wall, close, and she can feel the remnants of his breath.
“You seemed happy… when I was carrying you down the hill,” he murmurs.
“It’s just been so long since I’ve felt the wind like that. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten how good it feels…”
“Yeah? Well I’m glad I could give you joy… despite the circumstances regarding the weather.”
If only she could tell him how just his face could send butterflies up her stomach.
Kiyotaka begins opening the box, letting steam burst forth. “We could do it again, sometime…”
She briefly turns away again. “A-ah. Aren’t you still busy training in the White Room?”
“I could convince them to spare some time.”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
Getting out the chopsticks, she pokes one into one of the takoyaki. As she bites down, she’s prepared for that familiar taste to flood her mouth.
“Besides that,” Kiyotaka continues. “How is… life?”
“Oh. Fine.”
“The outside world is truly fantastic, don’t you think so?”
“I suppose it is.” She reaches for another shrimp ball and takes a glimpse at his face. He seems even younger than she’d last seen him, or perhaps it’s his rounder cheeks casting an illusion on her eyes; something’s told him to weather that eternal facade.
He grabs a napkin to wipe his mouth clean.
“What’s it like to have a family?”
“Alright,” she responds curtly, which she quickly regrets. Kiyotaka’s never had a familial figure before, and he’s looking at her with a hardly-restrained curiosity. But what can she say? That she’s spent most of her time after the White Room moping in a dingy hospital room? She chews on the takoyaki, hoping it’ll keep her thoughts at bay.
Someone’s speaker has begun blasting music a few streets away.
‘When the day that lies ahead of me… Seemed impossible to face…
And when someone else instead of me… Always seems to know the way…’
She was made to be formidable, though often, she feels as if she can only amount to the dust that gathers on the idea’s surface. She was made wrong; her insides are too soft and mushy; sweet, and too easy to chew apart. Not like him. He’s the epitome of that ideal, the stabilizing anchor in her chaotic reality. They’re on opposite sides of a mirror, and now he has his hand reaching out.
‘Then I look at you… And the world's alright with me…’
She opens her mouth to test one of her sister’s anecdotes on tongue. It doesn’t fit, so she closes it. Next time, she promises herself, she’ll bring one of her own to share with him. This time, however, she’ll make due with leaning her head against the wall.
‘Just one look at you… And I know it's gonna be…’
The ground tilts and she feels her body lose weight. She holds her breath, closing her eyes as she braces for impact.
It’s a soft sensation.
‘A lovely day… (lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day) (Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day)’
Yuki opens her eyes and sits up with a jolt. There’s a whirring machine with two sets of wires, one of which was currently being disconnected from her elbow. The other set seems abandoned, though she catches the creases of the covers on the bed beside hers.
Her alarm clock is going off.
‘A lovely day… (lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day) (Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day)’
Yuki sniffs the air, and realizes that a tray of takoyaki has been set next to her bed.