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The petals fell like a flurry of snow around the practice garden, a blinding array of pinks and whites. Soft as the first snowfall of the year. The color of hope, the color of spring, and yet there was only dread. The kind of dread she felt when she remembered Hanako was dead.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
In the distance, cheers and hollers arose from the soccer field as Nene grabbed hold of a thorny vine—
“GOAL!”
Her lower lip quivered, and her hand clenched—she gasped in pain as the thorns pricked her palm. She’d never forget how happy Hanako was when he played soccer in the fake world. Or how he high-fived her and bragged about the goal he’d scored.
Did he ever get to play it when he was alive?
Would he ever get a chance to play again now that’s he’s dead?
Blood dripped down her hand and to her wrist, it’s red trail was like a taunt; that she was alive and he was not. She dropped the vine and cradled her injured hand. It hurt so much, but also not enough.
Back in the bathroom, Hanako sat on the ledge of the window. Beams of sunlight shined through his transparent body. The door shut behind Nene with a soft thud, and he looked up.
“Hey, Yashiro.” His eyes yellow and luminous—just like the moon, which Nene found herself gazing more and more at these days when she was alone in the dead of night. From the crescent to the full moon, she imagined Hanako sitting beside her; eyes lit with awe and excitement as he talked her ear off about the moon and space facts—just like when she’d seen him—not him, but Amane—in Tsuchigomori-sensei’s yorishiro memory.
And yet…she felt a pang of sadness because no matter how much she wished it, no matter how much she willed it, she would never get the chance to gaze at the moon and stars with him like she had in the fake world.
Because there was no way he felt the same way back.
Because he’d only been acting—just like when he’d asked her out on a date. None of it had been real, and yet the pain she felt was like a barbed-wire squeezing at her heart.
“Eh? Yashiro? What’s wrong?”
His voice, like gravity, pulled her back to reality. She blinked, and everything blurred. Hanako reflected in her eyes like broken glass; his lips pulled down and eyes wide with concern. Absently, she touched her cheek and felt a wetness. Tears?
And a tear dropped right onto her wound from the thorny vine. She hissed from the sting and from the gentleness in his voice. If he kept looking at her like that—if he kept being gentle like that—
Her eyes burned. “I cut myself in the practice garden,” she said, her voice hollow and numb like ice to her ears.
Hanako drifted over, his lips pursed as he looked over at her hand, his own hands buried deep within the pockets of his gakuran.
“Does it hurt that badly?” he inquired.
And Nene nodded, unable to speak, almost like all the air in the room had disappeared, and she was drowning—drowning in all things Hanako, from his concerned eyes, to his soft voice, and the tenderness of his hand as he took hers and inspected the wound.
“It’s just a tiny scratch,” he said, but his words didn’t register.
Every part of her prickled with pain and yearning—the urge to throw herself against his chest, to feel his solid arms wrapped around her, rubbing soothing circles down her back.
And it was never the pain in her hand, but the pain in her heart. The pain that Hanako was dead and she couldn’t be with him—she could never be with him.
But he was all she wanted.
“Hey, Hanako-kun…”
He looked up at her, and his grip on her hand loosened. His moonlit eyes were as round as a bug’s.
“When you were alive—”
He flinched and released her hand as though she’d stung him.
But Nene kept strong, thinking back to the soccer game she’d heard from the garden. “—did you ever play soccer?”
He looked away, staring at a spot on the ground. “Why do you want to know?”
She swallowed. “Because you never talk about it—when you were alive.”
Hanako looked back up at her, his mouth drawn into a thin line, and his eyes seemed to dim. “No, I didn’t play soccer.”
She knew the answer before he even spoke it. But somehow, something changed within Nene. There was a different type of curiosity. The kind that made her heart hammer as she worked up the courage to ask her real question.
“Did you ever…” her face flamed up like a candle, “…like…anyone?” Do you like me?
Hanako let out a choking sound, and stumbled backwards. “N-no!” His pale cheeks flooded with red. “Never!”
“So then…” Nene toyed with her skull brooch, finding a sort of comfort and strength in it, “you never kissed anyone?”
He pulled down his hat, shielding his eyes. “W-why are you asking me this?” And when Nene didn’t answer, he stared at her for a moment before he sighed, shoulders slumping. “Not while I was alive.” His face and neck turned a deep rouge.
And her heart surged like an electrical current zapping through her as she flashed back to her first kiss—when he kissed her cheek. How he leaned his arm over her, blocked her in, and kissed her.
Your reward, he had said with a smile.
And she had dared to kiss him back—to cheer him up.
Her knees quivered like jelly. She was Hanako’s first kiss, and he was hers.
But those kisses weren’t enough.
The way he was looking at her, eyebrows raised, she knew she had to explain her weird questions. “I keep thinking about all the things you must have missed out on when you were alive…There must have been a lot,” she said lamely. Of course, there was a lot, she mentally chided herself, and resisted the urge to facepalm.
Hanako’s eyes darkened like a lunar eclipse, and Nene knew she struck a nerve. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted, and her stomach sank with regret for asking.
“It’s just…” Nene stared down at the scratch on her palm. A cut that proved she was alive. For now.
That’s right, she thought, I’m going to die soon, too.
“Just what?”
“Something else…” she said breathlessly, “you missed out on and that I don’t want to miss out on because of my lifespan…”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“This.”
And before he could respond, she squeezed her eyes shut, and leaned forward, and kissed him.
It was only a peck—short and chaste. The coolness of his lips against hers lasted only a second—a second that would replay in her mind over and over on an infinite loop.
And with her voice uneven, she said, “A kiss.”
Hanako touched his lips, and turned away from her. Nene’s eyes went wide; she was frazzled and mortified. What was she thinking? He probably didn’t want her to kiss him.
“S-sorry!” she stammered.
He looked startled by her outburst as though he’d forgotten she was still there. His throat bobbed up and down, and he stammered back, “D-don’t be!” His face fully flushed from his cheeks to his ears. He rubbed the back of his neck, and mumbled, “I liked it.”
“Aah, that’s good then,” she said, prodding her index fingers. She felt entirely unsteady, like she were on a ship in the midst of a stormy sea. From the kiss to Hanako admitting he liked it—sadness crashed into her once more like a tidal wave, and her voice tumbled into a whisper, “I hate that you’re dead.”
He stiffened, and the way he stared at her—it made her feel unnerved. And slowly, he a smile spread out on his face. “Yashiro,” he said, and reached out his hand and gently stroked her cheek. She melted into his cool touch, like a feather tracing her skin. “If I had the choice…I would do it all again.”
She jolted. “Hanako-kun?”
“I would.” And he pulled her against his chest, crushing her in a hug. The thrum of his heart, the feel of his arms wrapped around her—how he was so slim and yet firm, and the softness of his uniform against her cheek…She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, but she didn’t mind. Because no matter how selfish it was, his words made her happy.