#yapper central GRAHHH

[potatogratins]

— first winter, then spring

꒰ summary ꒱ against the cold winter air, yuki ishikawa accidentally pulls a woman with him while running away from his fans. after an awkward interaction, they learn that they live in the same apartment complex. an unexpected relationship forms from hallway glances and cinema sessions.

꒰ genre ꒱ fluff ꒰ pairing ꒱ | ishikawa yuki/nameless female-identifying oc ꒰ w.c. ꒱ 7,924 ꒰ published ꒱ august 16, 2024

Conversations have always passed by me more than I probably realized. My eyes averted from the eyes of others, running away into the endless landscapes of vanilla-colored, semi-gloss-painted walls. There was something about the eyes that felt more vulgar than the parts we normally hid because, in retrospect, they are the most truthful parts of our body, more than our lips and hands. So when an outrageously tall and obviously strong Japanese man was looking straight at me in the eyes, there was something in me that knew that he knew who I was, even if I had nothing worth confessing about.

“I wanted to… thank you,” he said carefully.

Everything about this man was so meticulous.

“It’s no problem. You look like you needed helping,” I replied quickly.

He was, however, not so meticulous with his tracks.

 Just about twenty minutes ago, I began one of the most gut-wrenching runs in my life. This man, running from a small alleyway, tried to dash away from a swarm of what I would assume to be his loyal admirers. I happened to be in his way; instead of running right past me, he pulled me by the arm. It seemed that his running had preceded his thinking—it took him a minute or so to realize that he was dragging a woman along with him. The dry, cold winter air felt like a slap to the face every second I had to run with this man because now I had to help him–the both of us–get away from the crowd. 

Twenty minutes later, we’re in a hidden restaurant. There were no more screaming fans. All that there was were empty dining sets, niche Italian memorabilia, and bored employees. A confused set of customers would not stop them from moving on with their dull lives. The only thing missing was the plates of pasta, which this man insisted on paying on his behalf, that I wished would arrive faster to break any possible point of contact.

No, I don’t dislike him. In fact, he is a fascinating person—as all human beings are. But I would rather know about them from afar and not when they are trying to lock their eyes with yours every second you have to be with them. I’m more nervous about the idea of first meetings: the utter and complete awkwardness that renders a first meeting to stay a first meeting. I’m scared of saying anything that might make him run away—therefore, making me pay for the pasta.

An employee walked towards our table and as she was about to place the dishes on the table, my eyes looked at the food to his eyes.

Soft, but strong. Determined, but capable of surrendering. Cheerful behind such nonchalance. Flames that have never been extinguished. Nevermind the color of his eyes. At that moment, I knew who he was.

“We should eat,” he told me. I smiled. Yes, we should.

The near-ivory-colored pieces of pasta were fully consumed. There was happiness in my stomach. But I couldn’t uphold the proverb of “beggars can’t be choosers” because I was begging myself to stop eating these stupid cherry tomatoes. For me, tomatoes always tasted good processed, but disgusting in their raw form. It always perplexed me, but I guess that’s the magic of cooking.

“You don’t like the tomatoes?” he asked me.

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry,” I smiled bashfully.

He laughed, “Don’t be. I used to not like it a lot.”

“At least we have something in common.”

A few laughs. Then there was that excruciating silence. This began to feel more like a first date. We both took another set of deep breaths. We would be a fascinating pair to a set of psychologists.

“Why were they chasing after you?” I asked him. He tilted his head.

“Your fans, why were they?” I clarified.

He waved his hands and shook his head. “I… I don’t know.”

“You must be very popular for a reason.”

“I still don’t know why I’m very popular.”

“Well, you are quite handsome.”

He looked up at me quickly. Then he laughed loudly. I felt my cheeks grow as red as those cherry tomatoes.

“I’m just saying that you’re attractive. Nothing more, nothing less,” I explained as I put my hands up. He should know I’m not attracted to him, right? Fuck, he should know.

“I mean I play volleyball. I don’t think my uh… face… you know…”

It was clear to me that he underestimated the power of aestheticism. He didn’t realize how beautiful he was. Many men I have both understood and not simultaneously, but I know that not understanding how attractive you are was a good trait. Was it a case of humility? No, it was a matter of naivety for this man.

“I think it’s best to not know why you’re popular.”

“Why?” He raised his eyebrow.

“It makes you a better character. Just–don’t ask.”

He nodded slowly as he downed another piece of pasta. I turned away from him and checked the time: 9:37 PM. I felt my heart drop, then beat faster. My hands began to sweat, and my eyes and mouth widened, taking in the Italian restaurant dust.

He must have checked the time too because he had a more violent reaction to the time. He sighed, before looking at me and offered to take me home. I assumed he had a car in the parking lot waiting for him. Do you know what else is waiting for him?

“You don’t think your fans will be waiting by the parking lot?” I sighed, “It’s alright. I can book a taxi.”

I showed him my phone and pointed to the apartment complex on the map. He nodded slowly.

“Ahh, well I live there too,” he told me.

I felt my muscles pull my eyebrows. It was damn near impossible that we lived in the same place. That building wasn’t even tall. How could I not have bumped into him? That’s impossible. I’ve gone in and out of that complex many times for a variety of reasons. I should have all my hours covered: I left at two in the morning once to prepare for a road trip. Another at six in the morning to get ready to be a corporate slave. Seven in the morning when I was still taking up classes. All the hours leading up to twelve when I would oversleep and leave despite missing the acceptable hours to be late. Afternoon to return to my house. Night to buy food and do other shenanigans. How could I have possibly missed this man?

“Really? How come we’ve never bumped into each other?” I asked him.

“I moved a few months ago.”

There were then two of the greatest mysteries that arose: how have I never met this man and why did it take a Hollywood-like meet cute for us to meet? I would not try to attempt to solve them. I’ll leave it to the experts to tackle these critical questions.

The waitress walked up to us and told them that they were closing. It was right that we had to leave. Imagine having the most perfect day with no customers, then a pair arrives at the very last minute you could have chosen to close the restaurant. I would have comforted her and told her that I was just as ready to go home as she was.

We had to walk out of the tiny street and into a bigger road in order to find the taxi driver that the man had booked through his phone. For a few minutes, we stood there like idiots, but I was taking in the serenity of this silence. This was the quietest moment of my day.

When the taxi arrived, we sat in silence, sitting, again, like idiots. I turned my head to the window, watching the stores close as people walked by. What I always enjoyed about quiet rides was that you were able to observe people from afar and imagine the scenario they were going through before moving to the person behind them. You could think of the lives they were living until you were forced to push the thought away because you knew you would never see them again. We left the thought as it was.

I understood that it would not be the case with this man.

Though the trip was short, I began to feel groggy. We got into the tiny elevator, which could barely handle his height. I was curious to see the floor number he would press, but the thought was so shameful to me that I looked at the floor counter instead, seeing it go higher. When the elevator reached my floor, I turned to him, nodded, and left the elevator… a farewell that was guaranteed to be useless because he followed right behind me.

The man and I walked in the same direction for a few seconds before I turned to my door. I felt him tap my right shoulder.

“I cannot believe we never met,” he exclaimed.

“Our first meeting was certainly unique. Makes for a start of a good friendship, don’t you think?”

He smiled and held his hand out.

“Before I forget, my name is Yuki, by the way.”

The night proved to me that we were just both little idiots making their way into the world for the both of us could only nod and smile at each other. I shook his hand and told him my name.

“I hope you have a good sleep,” he said, and before I could say anything, he walked away. The window to chase after him began to close. When he got to his door, I looked away and went inside the apartment.

The following week, I began to look out the hallways to see if Yuki had come around. I was curious to know what happened to him since that night. What happened to his fans? Did he eventually get his car back? Did his teammates bring his stuff home for him on that day? However, I began to accept that this was just one of those moments where you meet someone once and never see them again.

“Hoy! Over here!”

My aunt called me from the other side of where I was trying to look for Yuki. She popped up with a son of one of our family friends, Charles, a mischievous tot at the age of five. He ran towards my legs. I picked him up and carried him while walking all the way to her.

“Charles wanted to pass by the playground, but I figured we could stop by to see how you were doing first.”

“Oh. Am I part of the play date?” I asked her. 

“You wanna come with us? I don’t mind if you do. Charles has been asking you for the past week, you know.”

“Looks like I’ll have to make up for the time lost then,” I looked at Charles and rubbed his nose. The three of us went to the elevator, and although elevator trips are short, there’s something about these that felt so excruciating. I thought to myself, “What if Yuki’s on the other side of the door? What should be my first greeting?” No, no, I’m not in love with him. People mistake general loneliness for romantic desperation. It’s just exciting to know someone who lives on the same floor as you. 

The elevator doors opened, and there was not even a human waiting on the other side.

How disappointing.

We walked our way to the playground, which was a lengthy walk for a tiny boy but much lengthier for the one carrying him. My aunt and I talked on the way, and before we even stepped foot on the edge of the playground, Charles signaled me to let him down. He ran straight to the swings. We looked at each other and sighed before sitting by one of the benches. We continued the conversation.

So, it was inevitable that I talked about Yuki.

“You don’t think he’s in love with you?”

“We’re just friends. We’re just acquaintances, neighbors who happen to be friendly with each other.”

“The way that you’re describing him just makes it sound like he’s in love with you…” she tapped her index finger on her chin before she said, “Or could it be possible that you described him that way because you’re the one who’s in love with him?”

The nerve!

“I’ve only talked to him for like an hour. I don’t know anything else about him, alright? He’s just… he seemed interesting to me,” and I hoped that explanation was enough for her.

“Alright, alright. I understand. It’s just different when it’s you.”

“Me? How?”

“Frankly, I've never seen you so invested in anyone”

I shook my head. She simply laughed, as she told me: 

“I’m just excited to see some developments in your life. You wanted some action after all, right?”

Most of the action in my life came in the form of a projector screen of a cinema. Films illustrated my biggest fears and desires, as well as situations we would never dream of going through. It’s one of the greatest man-made creations, and I am grateful for living in a time like this.

I watched a rerun of When Harry Met Sally, thankfully in its original dub but with Italian subtitles. I don’t think I would agree with the dubious morality of the film’s screenwriter, but the way she wrote her characters and of romances made you want to be whisked away by a heterosexual man, charmed by the most dramatic lines a man wouldn’t imagine saying in reality. Many romance films were never great critically, but they always seem so satisfying—especially when the man was written by a woman.

It was coincidental that this film was out again in the local cinema when I was at the crossroads of trying to figure out just why I was thinking of Yuki so much, even if I don’t think of him in that way. In summary, the film tried to answer the age-old question: Can a man and woman be friends?

The question just hurt my head, so I set it aside—in other words, ignored it.

As I walked home from the cinema, all I thought about was when Harry told Sally, “…When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” I wanted something like that for myself. I kept repeating the ending scene, keeping my head down, until as I entered the elevator, bumped into the chest of a friend—er, acquaintance.

“Are you alright?” A familiar voice asked me, and when I looked up, Yuki was looking straight down at me. I realized the difference in height between the both of us. I could only nod slowly at him.

“Are you sure? You were staring at the floor.”

I nodded profusely, stepping to his right. I still kept my head low. Come the elevator ride, which, again, always took a thousand years. As we went up, I could feel his eyes poke my unattractive slouch. Wish I could die right now! 

“Did you come from work?” He asked me, attempting to make small talk

The elevator doors opened.

“Ah, no. I came from the cinema.” 

We both stepped out. Every second turned into an hour, and though it took less than a minute to get to our doors, we seemed to be walking at a snail’s pace.

“You like movies?” He asked me.

“I love them. I watch one every day.”

“Wow. Are you actually a famous actress?”

“No, no,” I laughed, “But I wanted to be a filmmaker once.”

“You should recommend me some movies. I’m sure you have good taste.”

I smiled, “Thank you. But tell me what kind of films you like first. It might be too boring or too cheesy for you.” 

“I’m not really sure what I like. I mean I watch anime. But I want to know what your favorite movie is.”

I stopped. “Why?”

“Why not? You are a very interesting person.”

For a moment, I looked at him. His entire face, not his eyes. I’m not brave enough to look at them. I scratched my head and faced the floor again. He tilted his head, and I believed that for a minute, we turned into idiots again, waiting for each other to respond. He raised his voice to say something but changed his mind. I did the same thing. Eventually, I was the one who broke the silence that formed between us:

“I’ll slip in a list of my favorite films under your door.”

I mustered the courage to look at his face.

I don’t know if he was smiling through his teeth, but I knew that he was smiling with his eyes, and it made all the difference. I suddenly gained the motivation to write up a good list for him. I just hoped that he had the time to go through each and every one of them.

I didn’t know what men liked, especially with someone like him who didn’t seem too enthusiastic about cinema to me. You wouldn’t want something too violent, crude, dreamy, or fast-paced. Most definitely not too philosophical. It’s not that I wanted to impress him, I just felt like I didn’t want him to switch on the television and spend an hour and a half watching a film he wouldn’t even enjoy at all.

“I watched all of them, by the way,” Yuki told me when we bumped into each other again in the hallway. I guess it was the power of the first meeting: you just kept on meeting them again.

“All of them? But those were twenty films!” I felt my eyes widen. With a sports career like his, would you even have time for anything else?

“I watched all of them while stretching… or eating… or when I was bored,” he said as he walked towards me with a wide smile on his face.

“Did you enjoy any of them?”

“I liked all of them. Where do you watch them?”

Maybe I was too mean to his eyes. They were never meant to intimidate or to investigate other people but to comfort them. I now realized that he simply wanted to pay attention to me, which is perfect because I am, quite frankly, without attention. A few circuits in my brain exploded before I could give him a well-thought-out response.

“I watch them in the cinema just a few streets away. Or I watch them online.”

“There’s a cinema nearby?”

“Yes, it’s a fifteen-minute walk there. And it’s the perfect distance: fifteen minutes to the cinema to gather your expectations for the film you’re going to watch, and fifteen minutes from the cinema to ponder on what you just watched.”

“I never thought of walking that way. It’s an exercise for the body,  but I never thought it could be an exercise for the mind.”

“Well, Yuki, when you hate the idea of walking but have to endure it just to see something that could make you feel happy, you’d have to think of other ways to make walking enjoyable.”

“But why would you waste fifteen minutes just to see if you could feel happy?”

“It’s more than just the trip that could have brought me unhappiness. It could be a burnt egg during breakfast or a boss’ scolding in the afternoon. If I felt angry, sad, or both for more than twelve hours but watched a film that was an hour and thirty minutes long and had an extra fifteen minutes to myself just thinking about that film and how good it was, then at least I could say that the day was lived through well.”

For a minute, Yuki froze and stared at me. He then looked away from my eyes and nodded slowly, as if he had just processed what I just said. He laughed–no, giggled–and scratched the back of his head. It must have been a nervous reaction. Or maybe I was trying to read him a little too much.

“What’s your job?” he suddenly asked me.

“My job?”

“I-If you don’t mind, you know, me asking?”

“Oh, way different from the movies, for sure. I just work at a tiny office building thirty minutes away. Nothing too important.”

“You don’t make movies?”

“It’s just not practical. I hate my job, but at least it pays my film tickets.”

We both awkwardly laughed. My damn humor.

“Uh–Can I watchsome of the movieswith you sometime?” He asked me with a pace much faster than how he usually spoke.

“Of course.”

“But not all the time, I’m busy with training and games… of course…”

“It’s no problem. Just… tell me if you want to come with me. I go to the cinema on the weekends. I always leave at around six.”

“Okay. I’ll see you… next time.”

“See you around, Yuki.”

We exchanged our friendliest of smiles before Yuki walked to the door of his unit. For some reason, I didn’t want time to stop. I let out a loud sigh. As  I opened the door, I instinctively turned my head towards his direction.

He was looking at me.

“Goodnight,” I told him.

His smile was much weaker. Even if the only responsibility that was entrusted to his hands was to open the door of his unit, he seemed clumsy with it. Quite unusual for his character–even if all I really knew about him was based on limited interactions. He seemed to be in a trance; he shook his head and entered his home.

He didn’t greet me back.

Weeks had passed since we had a major interaction. There and then, we would greet each other a few times, but it wasn’t anything of importance for me to tell. Each and every greeting was filled with a pinch of half-crooked smiles and a teaspoon of inevitable awkwardness. In my case, I always seemed to enjoy our dishes of interactions but with a dash of overthinking. Did he hate me? I could never really tell with him, as the thoughts are always diminished every time he asks for my wellbeing.

“I hope the movie isn’t too long this time,” my aunt told me.

“I searched on the internet. It’s two hours and thirty minutes long,” I replied.

She sighed and told me, “Nothing I could do to stop you from your movie watching. Just text me if you’ll be home a little beyond 9:30. You know me.”

“Sorry for making you worry that one time.”

“It’s alright. I just don’t want your mom scolding me. You know how she is. Run along.”

I greeted her goodbye, as she turned her head to the television screen and watched a K-Drama that seemed to be all the craze these days. As much as I used to enjoy shows, I could never really commit to one, which is why I love films so much: it would only take one sitting for you to finish a story. As I waited for the elevator, a door opened, and a figure began to approach me. As I was about to turn to them, the elevator doors opened.

“Are you going to the cinema today?”

Ah, Yuki.

“Yes, I am,” I replied cheerfully. We both went on the elevator.

“What are you watching tonight?”

“Cinema Paradiso. It’s an old film–I think it’s older than me. It’s one of my favorite films, it was why I loved watching films in the first place.”

“You didn’t recommend that to me,” he pouted.

I was surprised by his memory. “It was a sappy film. I didn’t know if you’d like it. But it’s an Italian film, so you might be interested after all.”

“Then is it okay if we watch it together?”

When the elevators opened, I walked out first, and jumped up and down to his request as he walked out after me. I led the way to the cinema, which, of course, took fifteen minutes to get there. He was inquisitive, asking questions about other movies I watched and Italian cinema in particular–considering where we were and what we were going to watch after all.

“Do you still go to the cinema even if it rains? Orrrr if it’s too cold?”

“Yeah. But sometimes I get stuck at the cinema cause I’d forget to bring an umbrella.”

He looked at my hands.

“I hope we don’t get stuck tonight,” he said with a smile.

"I think we should be asking more important questions," I began to tease him.

"Like what?"

"Your fans."

He scoffed

"Oh, don't worry about them. It was just that one time. They don't know where I live anyway."

We eventually got to the cinema, which was, as usual, barely occupied. I never really knew if they were the same people visiting–you could never tell who was who in the dark, and I never bothered to search for familiar faces when the lights went up. We sat in the center because, to me, it was never too near nor too far.

The entire time, we sat in silence, with a few laughs in between. Being the emotional person that I was, I sniffled–the tears dried thanks to the handkerchief Yuki had brought. Most of the time, he was still, but I hoped that he was taking the entire film in. In the middle of the film, there were a set of scenes that embarked, full of longing and yearning, caused greatly by something that was difficult to attain for the film’s couple: love.

It was around this time I could feel Yuki squirm a little, whether it was because it made him uncomfortable or thinking of someone else, I could never really tell. In the corner of my eye, I could feel him turn to me, then to the screen, and to me again. When I finally decided to confront him, I picked up a piece of popcorn from the bucket and showed it to him, like a child putting out their favorite toy to everyone.

He thanked me. I had expected him to pick it from my fingers, but he ate it straight away instead. The pressure and touch of his lips were minimal but it was enough to at least make me identify that they were… soft. Besides the projector, one of the greatest benefits of the movie houses was that many of our facial expressions were concealed–something that I am grateful for hiding my red face. I placed the popcorn bucket between us and he graciously got some more, to which I hoped that he had forgotten what had just transpired minutes ago.

When the film ended, my eyes were puffy. Yuki, though I would say less generous with his emotions (or maybe he was uncomfortable with me?), had a few tears in his eyes. I pulled out the handkerchief he had just lent me and dabbed the corners of his eyes. It was a little difficult to reach out to him, not because of his height, but because I was trying to contemplate what was the socially acceptable distance between us. When his tears had finally dried, I stared into the credits.

“Let’s stay here for a while,” I told him, “I always watch the credits till the very end.”

When the credits were done, we left the cinema in silence. We stood side by side. Normally, if I were with a friend, I would have started babbling about the events of the film. Now, I found myself saying absolutely nothing. Not at all what I intended, because Yuki is also my friend, right?

“Now I understand why you go there every weekend. It was a nice movie. The atmosphere is quiet and the seats are good, even for someone as tall as me,” he turned to me and placed his palm on my head, as if to mock my height. I laughed at him and playfully slapped his arm.

“There’s something about that cinema that feels magical, don’t you think? That’s why I enjoy watching with a larger projector screen than a phone screen at times.”

“It’s much better when you watch it with someone.”

“It is! Sometimes when the film’s funny, it’s great to crack jokes with them.”

“You go with other people? Who else?”

“Oh, just my aunt. Or sometimes with a couple of friends.”

“No boyfriend?”

I paused. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have one.

“No, I don’t have one. I’m too cowardly to ask anyone out.”

The air grew harsher, and so did the snowfall. I placed my hands in my jacket, placing my arms as close to my torso as if to shake off the cold temperature. It’s only a temporary remedy. My teeth began to chatter—so much for coming from a place that has never snowed. Yuki watched me freeze to death, with his clothes looking much warmer than mine,

“May I?” Yuki placed his hand in front of me.

I didn’t know what he was referring to, but I could only say “Yes.”

We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, facing each other. He took my hands, using them to pull me a little bit closer. He warmed my hands by blowing into them with his breath and rubbing them with his own hands. For a moment, I looked at him and for the first time since our first meeting, I could never conjure up any hypothesis that could explain this behavior.

“I feel much warmer now,” I whispered to him. The travel of his eyes from my hands to my eyes was slower, more hesitant.

“Are you sure?” he asked me, still holding onto my hands. I let my hands slip away from his slowly.

“We’re almost there to the apartment. I’ll be alright now,” I answered.

The rest of the way back home was filled with silence and emotions I was yet to identify.

When we got back, we both stopped in front of my apartment. I was back to normalcy. I couldn’t look into his eyes.

“I enjoyed it–” I started.

“Are you going again next week?” He asked me immediately.

“Of course. Why?”

“Is it okay if… I went with you–”

“Of course it is–”

“I just want to be your friend.”

Silence.

“I don’t bite, Yuki… I’ve always wanted to know you more anyway. Don’t be a stranger.”

He smiled softly, and I felt my stomach flipping.

Again, I am not interested in him that way. It’s just the feeling of not talking to people a lot, I promise.

“Well then. I’ll see you next week,” he told me. He patted my head and walked towards his apartment.

In the next month or so, Yuki found his way into my life. I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t that I didn’t have any friends, but I never had a friend as engaging as him.

Do friendships also have honeymoon phases?

Forgive me, allow me to retract my previous question.

There were times when we would walk to and from the cinema talking about the film we were about to or just watched, discussing the philosophy of the film and our lives. On other days, we didn’t talk about the film at all–we talked about ourselves and what we went through from the week before the shenanigans with my coworkers and my boss or with Yuki and his teammates. Sometimes, I would confide in him my loneliness and he in me his deepest fears. Though my usual travel time from or to the cinema consistently took fifteen minutes, we would sometimes delay it by five minutes… ten… fifteen… because we spent so much time talking to each other that we never really realized how slow we both walked.

But there were times when we would just walk in complete silence. We didn’t hurry to get back to the apartment either. We walked with a certain rhythm and pace, and somehow, I enjoyed that the most. The most important sound in a film was never really the music or effects that would play, but silence. It amplifies the richness of the scene and more so the action of us walking without speaking to each other. 

It was also this silence that made me hear the beating of my heart, that I am most certainly in love with him. Romantically interested. Admired. Liked. Fascinated. Intrigued. And I knew that this was a dangerous path, knowing his quirks and the time spent between us, I knew that there was no door for me to walk in and take a hold of his heart. 

I think I’ve seen this film before.

So I decided to guard my emotions, and not do anything about it. I valued his thoughts, and to a greater extent, our friendship. I couldn't tell how honest he’s been to his other friends, but I am not open to the idea of him losing a friend he could talk to just because she’s in love with him. I’ve dealt with enough heartbreak; I’ve mourned more of the friendships lost than the romantic relationship that could have been.

These feelings would pass, as all things have.

One particular night, we had just watched The Moon Has Risen, a Japanese film made in the 50s by Kinuyo Tanaka. Yuki was thrilled to see a film from his homeland, much more a film that he had never heard of. He told me that he was never fond of romance but was willing to give this film a shot since I told him that I loved that film so much–which led him to jokingly say that I was much more cultured than he was because I knew more Japanese films than he did.

But before we even got to the gates, he stopped me.

“I have something to tell you…” he trailed off. I raised my eyebrows. I have now seen his nervous state: his sweaty hands, his avoidant eyes, and much softer voice. Whatever he was willing to say, I knew that both of us were not going to be the same when we went through that gate.

“I’ll be gone,” he simply said. It was short and plain.

“For how long?” I asked.

“When spring comes, I–I’ll be moving somewhere else in the city. Then I’ll leave the country in a few months, then return next winter.”

In other words, he’s leaving. We were never to meet again.

“Oh. It’s a shame,” was all I could say. Short. Plain.

Spring was visiting in two weeks or so.

“Yes, it is,” he told me, “It’s more of a shame that we won’t have time together anymore.”

“Just when I started to get to know you…”

“I know. I mean we can uh… talk on the phone.”

I simply nodded.

“Are you upset with me?” He asked bluntly.

“No, I could never be.”

“I learned so much from you. Not just because of the films we watched. I am seeing my life in another way because of the things you would tell me. And I love you–I mean I–You’re a good friend, for that. You are a good person. Even if I know you have a hard time talking to people. You make an effort. I like it.”

Though spring was about to enter our small world, the air felt colder.

Colder than all the times we traveled to and from the cinema. 

I’m not allowed to be upset. He chose this career, and it demands him to do all sorts of things. That path was set in stone for him long before we had met. But there’s a part of me that wants to damn the stars–Was there no other way we could meet? I agreed to keep a distance and to not make a move, and now I won’t be able to admire him from that reasonable distance. The volleyball games were always there, sure, but I won’t be able to hear his every thought—an "exchangeless" currency that I now realize had a rarity I hadn’t hoarded enough. Still, I could not allow selfishness to overcome my feelings, after he had just called me a good person.

“Didn’t I tell you that our meeting was a sign of a good friendship? Distance won’t take away the times we had together, even if it was just for a season. I’ll always be here–and so will the cinema–if you ever decide to pass by,” I told him as I felt my throat dry and sting, “You’re dear to me, nothing will ever change that. So let’s not be sad.”

Yuki took the deepest breath and quickly looked down at his feet. He shook his head before looking up at me. He smiled at me, which I quickly caught faltering before he was able to put his smile back up again.

There were many things that I could say–more that were worth shouting. If silences could bring about a new layer of comfort between people, it could also incite fear: the fear that the ending will inevitably come. Though my hands were freezing, I wanted to say something just so we wouldn’t have to go back inside and return to our apartments and distance ourselves and move on with our lives. Or say something that could change the trajectory of our lives together.

But a coward was what I was. The good minutes of silence between us was a terrible signal that we had to go home, and that we did. The elevator ride, for once, moved in its natural time; it did not slow. Our steps out of the elevator were slow and hesitant, but time still passed quickly. When we got to my apartment, he told me, “I’ll be packing up. I think I’ll be done by next week.”

“Alright.”

“I might pass by your apartment before I leave.”

I took those words to heart. Too much, I believe.

Because he never visited me before left.

The seasons change, and so do we.

Spring has passed, and so has summer and fall. Winter is about to end.

My aunt was disappointed when she learned that Yuki had left, knowing that my life had returned to normalcy.

“Why didn’t you confess to him!?” She asked, shaking me violently, “Do you know how long your mom–Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this!? I can’t let my niece be bitchless!”

“Yuki’s a really famous volleyball player, you know that? I don’t think he has time for someone like me.”

“Pfft–for someone like you. If he tolerated you like you said he did, he wouldn’t go out in the freezing weather every weekend to watch movies with you.”

“Hey–I didn’t say tolerating! I said he was a good friend. Good friends enjoy the company of other people.”

“Nah, nah… I’ve played the love game for so long. He’s in love with you. I know it, I know it.”

“Whatever suits you.”

I never bothered to ask Yuki about why he wanted to go to my apartment and what he wanted to say in the first place. He probably meant to give some biscuits and some parting gifts. But it probably expired, and he was too embarrassed to send in anything. Or so I believed. My aunt told me he was probably going to profess his love, but I don’t think that was the case. It would be uncharacteristic of him.

We still keep in touch. But I’m not much of a social media person, so I’m much less enthusiastic. I know it’s still him talking, but I would rather see him behind the screen, speaking to me. I want to see his lips move, and oh, see his infinite smile. I want to reach his head and ruffle his silly hair, as much as I used to make fun of it for looking so burnt.

He was around the area now and then, which could have been an opportunity for him to visit, but somehow, we never got the chance. He could probably be in the area right now for all we know, walking right under my very nose. I’ll find out sooner or later on Instagram.

Now, here I am, sitting by the window, eating a bowl of near-expired yogurt. It’s past one in the afternoon on a weekend, so I’m taking in my time watching the people pass by. When you’re lonely and boyfriend-less (Or, as my aunt likes to say, “Yuki-less”), you resort to doing ridiculous things such as this. Though I could have visited the cinema around this time, I decided to go against it–I am reminded too much of our time together.

Then there’s a knock on the door. Another. Afterwards, it becomes faster and faster, until I lazily stand up and open the door.

“There’s a doorbell—”

Yuki appears before me, with his hands ready to knock on the door once more. My eyes widen as much as his–which is funny because he should be expecting me by the door–and our cheeks redden. There’s a beat before either of us gets to talk.

“–You know…” I trail off.

“Hello,” he greets me.

“Hi. What brings you here?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

No other particular reason?

“Well, it’s nice seeing you again, Yuki. Come on in,” I sigh. I lead him to the dining set, where we both sit across from each other.

“Before I say anything, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For saying that I wanted to visit you one last time and not visiting you anyway.”

I raise my eyebrows, stretching my arms. I look at my surroundings before I could really look into his eyes, “I have no problem with that. I know you’re busy–”

“I wasn’t busy–”

“You don’t have to lie–”

“I didn’t visit because I was afraid.”

Beat.

“Yuki… I know humans hate goodbyes. It’s only natural.”

“No, you don’t understand–let me explain. I wanted to come to your apartment before I left because I wanted to tell you what I felt.”

“About what?”

“About you. I–I–”

He lightly combs his messy hair. He looks around the apartment as if to look for something that could calm him down. Then he looks at me, before avoiding my face altogether. He takes in a deep breath… one… two… three… before he continues talking:

“I liked you–no, don’t interrupt me–I like you. Before we met, uhhh I passed by you when I was unpacking my things. Your voice was so loud that I could hear everything. But the way you said it… interested me. And I like people who talk a lot. But I couldn’t find a way to… talk to you…” He pauses, everything becoming a calculation to him, before continuing, “…And I didn’t mean our first meeting to go like that. But when I was running away, and I saw you, I had this… feeling… this… what do you call it… instinct… to pull you with me.”

He then tells me, “The reason why I didn’t want to talk to you after so many months was because I thought you were angry at me. Your responses are much shorter than how you spoke in real life. And I thought I messed up.”

He takes in a sharp breath, “I remember everything since when we first met. The days when you would tie your hair… and the days you do not. The outfits that you wore. But what I remember the most was the things you would tell me. It would be hard for me to not like someone whose eyes would go big and their hands would move around every time they talk about something that they loved. You’re just… full of… love.”

I did not know he was capable of doing this, nor was he withholding such emotions for so long.

I stood up and sat beside him. Months had passed when I had overcome the fear of looking into his eyes, but I fear that it’s all returned. I cannot look at him.

I say to him, with my head down, “Thank you for telling me all that.”

“Is that…”

“...I… feel just about the same way too.”

“You do?”

“Of course–do you not believe me? I haven’t gone to the cinema that much since you’ve left. And to think I’ve gone to the cinema for nearly every week of my entire life before you came along.”

“You like me? Why?”

I laugh at him and pinch his cheeks. “Do I need a reason to like you? I like you for who you are. And I’m sure you know who you are. Every bit of yourself–I admire it.”

He looks at me, and he nods at every word. He looks to the side as if to process everything, and then he looks at me again. He wants to say something, a syllable coming out of his lips, but nothing keeps coming out. He sighs over and over, before looking at me straight into my eyes.

So when his voice fails himself, all that is left is the language of touch. He puts his arms out first and reaches out to me. Slowly… inch by inch… Then an embrace. He covers my body with his large hands, as the words he wanted to put out are finally clear to me: the roughness of his hands translates to the command of his voice, the pressing of his fingers the depth of his words, and the more his skin is stuck with the rest of me, the more I could identify the unspoken sentences.

He breaks our hug to take a good look at me, capturing a photo only his memory can take, each shot separated by the blinking of his desperate eyes. Then he kisses me. 

To say “I admire you” too platonic, “I love you” too strong. The best I can do was to look into his eyes. To look into the eye of another was to become vulnerable, but to look into his eyes was a moment of submission and power in a gentleness I could not feel from any other person but him. He sees me, I see him—to the both of us, these meant more. He pats my hair to an unfamiliar beat. Immediately after, he places his hand on my forehead horizontally and slowly slides it down, closing my eyes. He kisses my left eyelid then my right. 

“Did you take some inspiration from Amélie?” I ask him.

“I was starting to like more romantic movies because I could learn a bit from them,” he laughs.

“Aren’t you an adorable idiot.”

“It took both of us a year to say what we wanted to say. I think it’s something we should work on–we’re both idiots, after all.”

We both laugh as we look out into the window.

The snow had already fallen, spreading out on the streets like fallen flowers. They’ve melted as they always eventually did. Winter has come and gone. Now comes spring, and our story begins to bloom with it.