12 Roses

33 | Unfamiliar Familiarities

You opened your eyes and nearly jumped out of bed, seeing one of Tsumiki's oldest stuffed animals staring back at you. She could at least be HOLDING IT instead of having it just lie between us.

After getting ready and going to the kitchen, you spotted your mother on the phone, her brows furrowed together and her thumbnail between her teeth.

You took a seat on one of the barstools, trying to read her lips behind her hand and trying to guess what the person on the other side was talking about.

When she hung up and looked at you, she instructed, "Get ready."

"For what?"

"Someone's coming to visit... for Tsumiki."

You tilted your head, then your mind flooded with memories that weren't yours. At the mall, at your house, in a car, being picked up from school, at Tsumiki's house — other than you and her, each memory had one person in common.

"...Gojo?"

Your mother raised her brows. "How did you know?"

"I... don't know."

She chuckled. "You were always a fascinating kid."

You stared at the way her hands spoke. You didn't know if that was said with fondness or not.

Tsumiki emerged from your bedroom not long after and your mother sat her by the couch and spoke to her in a tone you knew was kind and gentle.

You went down to the flower shop and flipped over the sign before going to the counter and reading through orders.

The only sound in the shop was your pen gliding across the paper until the bell above the door jingled as it opened.

You felt the gust of entering wind on your forehead and you looked up.

Your eyes widened.

A boy with dark unruly hair and tired eyes stepped into the shop, not even bothering to look at you as he disappeared into the flowers.

You stood and peered at him over the flowers.

He didn't know you, you knew that, but you knew him like you knew every flower in that shop.

The sculpt of his face, the aloofness of his eyes, the way he carried himself, the almost regal way he walked. You could draw him by memory, describe him in words, sculpt him with clay.

Yet you couldn't.

Not really.

You sat down and waited for him to make his way to the counter.

When he did, he met your eyes and the two of you stared at each other for a long while, like paintings across from each other in a gallery with the same name in their corners.

They sat on the same easel, were touched by the same brushes, were created with the same paint, by the same hands, but they didn't know each other. They simply found each other familiar, like the ocean and the sky.