Blossoms of the Dark

LXXXV Shouto: Camellia

In one week, it will be October 31.

Hanada and I are in a time crunch.

Our project was almost completed, but we realized that we had been using different dimensions.

She was using the scale written on the x- and y-axes to create her equations, and disastrously, I didn't pay attention to that and drew the structures to my imagination, which was half the scale of the axes.

So for the past five days, we've been consistently meeting at the school library, staying past our intended hours, fixing our equations.

I'm making up for my mistake by rewriting half the equations and checking Hanada's equations.

And it looks like she needs my help. She huffs, "I can't find the p-value for the parabola, no matter how I look at it. Help me out, please?"

"Sure, check mine in the meantime, will you?"

She takes my sheet from me as I take hers. We review each other's work. True enough, the p-value for this parabola is difficult to solve, but after a few minutes, I calculate it.

She gives her thanks as I return her sheet back to her. I look at mine. There's a circle around one of the values I wrote for the ellipse equations.

As I correct the equation, I war with myself between looking resolutely away and watching her from the corner of my eye. For an instant, I manage to ignore her presence. But just as instantly, I can't. I hate this indecisiveness; it's not like me. Mostly, I hate the fact that I hate not being around her. Oh, how I would love to blame this chaos on puberty, teenage angst, and hormones. But I know that it's more than that. Despite everything that I've done to avoid her, I still feel that resonance from that day all those months ago.

Staring at her now, I wonder. She rests her head against her raised left hand while she writes with her right hand. Glasses perched low on her nose, tendrils of hair escaping her chignon, blazer draped over her shoulders, uniform tie not undone in the slightest. She looks like a model for a magazine. But when she reaches for her thermos bottle, that image shatters. She brought milk to drink. Of all things, milk!

At the sight, I snicker. "Thermos bottles are for storing things like tea, coffee, even hot water. But you store milk. Warm milk."

She's quick to rise to her defense. "Is it written somewhere that that's the only purpose of thermos bottles? Do show me. I think it can be used to store any liquid, even liquid nitrogen. Be grateful it's not that but milk in my thermos." But even she smirks in lightheartedness.

I laugh a little louder but low enough that the librarian doesn't kick both of us out. "Even if you brought liquid nitrogen, you wouldn't dump it on me."

"No, I wouldn't. But if a particular short boy with dark purple sticky balls for hair appeared, I might reconsider."

"In that case, I would gladly assist you."

She laughs that melodious laugh for a moment and immediately quiets when the librarian shouts for silence. Her cheeks tinge red before she returns her attention to the equations. I do the same. We continue the same process from before, acknowledging each other only when necessary.

I confess we are efficient. We've finished more than half of the equations by the time it's closing time. And I think we deserve a reward for the effort.

"Let's go to a café. I'll pay for us. What do you say?" I ask her.

She looks at me for a few moments, confusion and surprise in her eyes, and then glances at her watch before saying, "Alright. You can choose the café."

We leave the library and go over to my favorite café. I inform her it's in the opposite direction of the train station, but she says she is willing to go anyway. The sun has almost settled for the night by the time we arrive. Hanada's hair turns more and more white. She chooses the window corner table. She sits and I stand.

"Alright, what do you want? Don't say plain milk," I tease.

She gives me a light shove and looks at the menu on the wall behind the barista. "I don't know a lot of these drinks. Something with chocolate is good."

"That's fine. Do you want to eat something with it?"

"No, just the drink. I don't want to impose."

I scoff, "I'm the one offering. You're not imposing. Just tell me what you want. Don't think about the cost."

She looks back at the menu and the dishes on display. "A slice of chocolate cake."

I smile, unable to resist one last jest. "Milk, ice cream, chocolate. You're such a sweet tooth."

She shrugs and smiles back.

I walk to the barista and give our orders. Three minutes later, our orders are ready. I bring back a large hot chocolate with marshmallows for Hanada, a large iced caramel macchiato for myself, and two slices of chocolate cake for both of us. We eat in silence, but this silence is different. It's mutual, comfortable, soothing.

We play a little game of looking at each other without getting caught. I don't know which one of us starts it. But we get caught each time by the other. And when we do, we blush lightly before looking away. Then the game starts over again.

I don't notice that a bit of chocolate misses my mouth and stains the corner of my lip until she gathers my attention. She taps the corner of her lip to show the location. I miss when I copy. She tries again. I miss again. Finally, she reaches for a napkin and leans over the table to wipe the chocolate.

Her face is close. My breath hitches. I hear her swallow. Once she's finished, she leans back with a soft smile and cheeks pinker than before. She doesn't meet my eyes again.

It's nighttime by the time we exit the café. We board the night train together. We sit in the same compartment together. We just don't sit beside each other. It's like deja vu. Except this time, I feel wistful instead of feeling cold and irritated.

Perhaps that's why when we get off, I grab Hanada's arm. She halts and turns around instantly, the panic clear in her expression. I let go of her arm and reach for a pink camellia from her now purely white hair. She stares resolutely at the ground in tired acceptance. But I don't pull the flower this time; I gently untangle it. She looks up at once, astonished. I am, too. Before I do something more astonishing, I whisper goodbye and leave.

I bring the camellia to my nose.

It has no scent of its own.

But still, I recognize the fragrance of something familiar in its petals.

Someone familiar.

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