You & I | OHSHC

TRE

TRE;
"AT HOME"

—————————

A couple of uneventful days later, I realise that I still haven't called Seika.

Seated at my desk, my eyes remain on the worksheet before me as I reach for my phone, left hand still resting on the wood as my fingers remain woven around the ebony wind of a pencil. Even as the warm device makes contact with my skin, I continue to focus on my work, leaving grey lines of graphite on the snowy paper. While I have practically perfected my kana, kanji has always been an oddity to my eyes- abandoning with a frustrated sigh the Japanese assignment, I turn my eyes towards my other homework, mind relaxing upon confrontation with a more familiar alphabet.

Boredom quickly reaches its peak, prompting me to ignore my studying in favour of something, anything else. Alerted by a small buzz to my phone once more- a notification from my Twitter account has lit up the screen, hence the noise- I grasp the piece of notepaper bearing Seika's phone number, hastily typing the digits into a fresh contact.

Now all that is left is to actually text her. For what feels like hours, I pace around my bedroom, carefully devising the perfect opening message, before copying it out and sending it.

Hey, this is Masako from last week.

Lying like a starfish on the pristine white bedcovers, I cover my face with my hands, peeking hopefully between my fingers until the device's screen is set alight once more. Within a split second, I have crossed the room, reading with greedy eyes the reply I have received.

I thought you weren't ever going to contact me, coffee girl.
What's the occasion?

A small smile spreading across my face at the nickname she has gifted me, I reply hurriedly, body practically floating at the euphoria of knowing that Seika Ayanokoji- possibly one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen- replied to my text messages. All thoughts of my grandmother forgotten, I allow myself to become engrossed in the conversation, feeling truly relaxed for the first time in a while.

Do I really need one, principessa?
I just wanted to talk to the girl with the pretty eyes tbh

She pauses in her response- in my imagination, I picture the same smile she sipped her coffee with lighting up her face at my compliment- but at the same time, dread collects in my heart of her recoiling, shocked and disgusted by my obvious flirting. Blood running cold, I ponder for a single terrified second whether I've made a terrible mistake.

Then another message pops up on the screen, and I exhale in relief, tense shoulders dropping.

Same here.

The butterflies aren't just in my abdomen, reading her words: they've escaped, fluttering in every inch of my body. Cheeks warm, I ask whether she has Twitter; upon receiving her username, I send mine before switching to the app and tapping once the 'follow' button.

You've got quite an impressive feed.

Thanks, principessa, you too. It's sarcastic, I know- we both have rather bland accounts, our followers generally people in the same social circle, tweets carefully formulated as to sit on the fence as much as possible.

We chat aimlessly for the remainder of the evening, each savouring every last piece of information about the other. Seika's favourite colour, I find out, is light blue- she has a legitimate claim to the title of princess due to the royal status of her ancestors, and she loves espresso.

I'm eventually called down by my parents to eat; reluctantly saying farewell to Seika, I abide to their wishes.

Sitting in the lounge after the meal, my parents switch on the television, switching channels until they reach the news. I tune out the background noise naturally, preferring to daydream- that is, until a single sentence catches my attention.

"Today, in a monumental leap forward for LGBT activism, Taiga Ishikawa won a seat in the Toshima ward's assembly," the presenter recites, short black hair so neat as to seem plastic.

My eyes immediately flick upwards to fix on the screen; trying not to seem to interested, I keep my head down despite my overwhelming curiosity. However, the voice of the newsreader is quickly drowned out.

"How disgusting." It's funny, how two words can instantly ruin your mood. As fast as I can, I withdraw from the situation- yet as hard as I try, I cannot ignore the words spilling from my parents' mouths, their fearless expression of hatred, how they echo the words of my grandmother when I once naively asked for her opinion.

As soon as I can, I excuse myself, retiring immediately to bed.

Lying under the soft covers, I fiddle with the cotton hem of my nightdress, willing back the tears already collecting in my eyes in favour of focusing on the sensation of fabric against my fingertips. Even as pangs of emotion strike my heart, I refuse to shed yet more tears, instead frantically searching for a solution.

Benio. I grasp for my phone, shaking hands typing in my passcode as I click on to her contact, typing out a frantic message. Lucky as I am to have such a dependable friend, the reply is swift; I can almost hear the voice of my junior as she asks what is wrong, concerned for my emotional state.

Salty water threatening to break free from its confines and trickle down my cheeks, I explain, a number of messages on my part filling the phone screen.

Her text back is instantaneous, tone scathing towards my family.

They don't deserve your tears, Masako.
Love between women is beautiful, not disgusting- people who deny that love are the awful ones.

Impassioned speeches have been Benio's forte for as long as I've known her- no matter what she speaks about, my junior is naturally convincing, her velvety voice never failing to elicit emotion from her listeners. It's this quality that distracts me from my sorrow, almost hearing her voice as I read the paragraph she sent me.

By the time she has to sleep, my melancholy has dried up with the tears I failed to shed, although my envy of Tamaki remains entrenched within my consciousness. Once more comfortable with my being, I close my eyes, wishing into my pitch-dark bedroom that Seika will follow me into my unconscious dreams tonight, just as she does my waking ones.