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Kujou Sara stares at her reflection. The floor-length mirror is impassive. It displays her legion of pink, puckered scars and ugly scabs, only partially covered by her underwear and bra. The fresh wound on her upper left arm looks less painful than it feels. The open-air makes it sting.
Sara hears the shower shut off from the bathroom. It gets replaced with fast-paced and jovial humming.
“Don’t.” Her partner stands in the doorway a moment later. Kokomi’s hair is dripping onto the hardwood, leaving a trail behind her.
“Hm?”
“...Are you being mean to yourself again?” Kokomi knows her well. Has known her well, since they met three years ago at that pep rally.
“No.” All her observations are mechanical. Not judgemental.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Whether or not Kokomi buys that, she walks over to her dresser and begins shuffling through the drawers.
Sara’s focus falls on her reflection’s knobby knees and severe haircut. Her face looks too plain without her day-to-day make-up. It’s a familiar sight. She doesn’t mind it. She likes her eyes. The yellow made her feel unique as a child, and even now, despite how they’ve dulled into brown, Sara often dresses around them. Her arms are also nice. There’s enough muscle that it can be seen even when she’s not flexing. Toned, that’s what Kokomi says. They’re toned.
“Did you borrow my yellow dress?” Kokomi has emptied half of their entire closet on the floor. The empty laundry basket sits in the corner of their room, neglected.
“The one with lace sleeves?” Since it’s summer, all Kokomi wears is dresses.
“No, the super short one. With daisies on it.”
“It’s in the wash. You put it in the wash after you got the chocolate ice cream on it.” Sara remembers rebooking the reservation at the fancy Thai restaurant.
“Right.” Kokomi nods. “Then can I borrow your white button-up? Mine’s—” The heaps of laundry look back at her.
Sara sighs. Seems like they’ll have to make time for chores soon. If they get back early from Ei’s garden party, perhaps she can run a load of laundry before sleeping.
“Sure.” Sara fishes it out of her closet. “It’s wrinkly.”
Kokomi wrinkles her nose and takes it with two fingers, pinching it as if it’s contaminated.
“Don’t be ungrateful.” Sara clicks her tongue. It’s hard to sound serious. Endearment for Kokomi always comes through.
“That’s hypocritical,” Kokomi says smoothly, pulling the button up around her moss green undergarments. She smiles. “You’re in my presence, yet you’re not on your knees.”
Her pride doesn’t let her give in that easily. Sara looks away from Kokomi. She’d return the grin if she caught Kokomi’s gaze.
“If anything.” Kokomi rifles through the drawers again. “You should be honoured I’m borrowing your white button up.”
She’s only teasing, but on a deeper level that Sara acknowledges with a nod of her head, Kokomi is correct.
If a stranger were to observe her, Sara could be described as nice, plain, hard-working. She has her own quirks. She makes homemade onigiri, does yoga and karate five times a week, and dabbles in photography. Compared to the rest of the population, Sara is average. She doesn’t mind it. She doesn’t particularly want to stand out.
On the other hand, Kokomi is…
So alive .
She’s flowing, dancing, exhaling colour. Kokomi enjoys spontaneous beach trips, pulling Sara along, even when they’re both in work attire and their sneakers are soaked for days after. Kokomi waves to the children on passing buses and compliments cashiers in the supermarkets. She does the chalk hopscotch every time they go for an evening walk and puts effort into every outfit she wears. Kokomi treats life well, and it returns the favour. Requited adoration.
They have never broached the topic. Sara doubts Kokomi is aware of their differences on the level Sara is. It’s obvious they derive enjoyment from separate activities and Kokomi is more likely to have plans than Sara is, but the gap between two is always more distinct to the one falling behind.
Not that Sara would say she is falling behind. She is running to keep up with Kokomi. To dance with her on the same beach.
And Kokomi lets her. Kokomi extends her hand and pulls Sara along with a happy smile.
Kokomi never asks Sara to run faster, or bend to her will. She accepts that Sara prefers to stay in instead of going bar hopping with old friends, that Sara likes oolong tea with one teaspoon of sugar instead of trying a new black one, and that Sara is content with going day by day. She doesn’t have a be-all-end-all goal.
Kokomi wants to be a writer. She pours her soul out on paper and attends workshops with bedhead and takes continuing study seminars. It’s admirable. Her dedication is what drew Sara in.
“Found it!” Kokomi pulls her green skirt out of the top drawer victoriously.
Sara smiles.
“Pick out some jewelry for me, will you?”
That’s becoming more and more of a common request from Kokomi. Sara combs through the ring tray and messy piles of necklaces on top of her dresser. They share jewelry, save for a few personal pieces.
“Does green agate work with today?” Each of Kokomi’s different crystals have distinct meanings. Sara isn’t familiar with all of them yet.
“Mhmm.”
Sara picks out two energy bracelets. Citrine and black tourmaline, if she remembers them correctly. And then the four Kokomi wears every day, one from her camp kids two years ago, two from her grandparents, and one that is from a fictional universe. As an afterthought, Sara picks up another necklace. She got it commissioned for their one-year anniversary, fishing the five pearls from the beach Kokomi loves so much.
“Will you?” Kokomi holds up her hair, turning around. She smiles. Sara returns it.
“Alright.” The pearls rest under the dip of Kokomi’s collarbone. Sara layers the green agate on top of it, carefully fastening the gold clasp at the back.
Kokomi still smells like peach from the skin scrub she uses in the shower. Even though Sara’s fingers barely brush over it, she can tell Kokomi’s skin is warm. There’s a hint of sunburn on the top of her shoulders.
“Don’t forget to wear sunscreen.”
“Mm.” Kokomi turns her head to the side to half-see Sara. “I did. The sun was just extra strong yesterday.”
“Reapply.” Although Sara finds the late summer freckles that Kokomi gets on her shoulders and cheekbones pretty, she knows Kokomi picks at them.
“Here,” Sara says. She slips the bracelets onto Kokomi’s wrists. The daily four go on her right, and the crystal ones on her left. “And you have crocheting class in the afternoon, so I didn’t pick out any rings.”
“Thank you.” Kokomi examines the bracelets. Her smile is bright. “I left my perfume in the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
Her humming resumes.
One of the mosquito bites on Sara’s back hurts. She hates the itch of the bites, so she’ll scratch them until they bleed because then they don’t itch anymore, they just hurt.
Sara twists in front of the floor-length mirror to see the scab on her lower back. There’s another under her shoulder blade. They add to her collection of blemishes. At least these don’t last for a long time. Her other scars are layered on top of each other, the skin ragged and healing as slow as possible despite the serums Kokomi makes her use.
“Why are you frowning?” Kokomi joins her in the mirror, smelling like lemons.
“I’m not,” Sara says. Her eyes are drawn to her partner’s reflection. Maybe Kokomi will let her brush her hair; it’s untidy. The green necklace matches her lingerie, which can be seen through the translucent white button-up.
“You were.”
“I was not.”
“Why?” Kokomi brushes away a portion of Sara’s hair covering her neck and leans down to kiss it. The press of her lips makes Sara’s breath catch. Affection from Kokomi is worth treasuring. If Sara is to breathe too loud, the scene might crack. “Allow me to guess?”
Sara nods. As if she could deny her.
“You wanted to wear the white button up.”
A shake of her head.
“Hmm.” Kokomi kisses her neck again, this time higher up. “You just remembered you didn’t take out the trash. And it’s garbage day today.”
“It’s garbage day tomorrow.” Sara’s internal clock would never let her forget that.
“You…want to clean the mirror. It’s got stains on it.”
Another shake of her head.
“Tell me.” Kokomi’s fingers walk on Sara’s shoulder. Holy, holy, holy.
Two shakes of her head. She doesn’t want to draw attention to her scars. Kokomi has already heard about them before. She’s assured Sara they only make her more beautiful, and has taken Sara to various skin-care stores, and kisses them before they fall asleep. They have already addressed the problem in the past. Sara doesn’t want to bring it up.
“What if I were to tell you that you’re beautiful?”
Then Sara would accept the compliment since it’s from Kokomi. But Kokomi’s her partner. She’s biased. And Kokomi would never say anything less than fully supportive about Sara’s appearance. So yes, Sara would accept the compliment, but she wouldn’t put much weight to it.
“I see.” Kokomi sighs through a smile and pokes Sara’s forehead. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
Kokomi’s pointer finger brushes the underside of Sara’s chin, forcing her gaze off the mirror. Two hands float upwards to cup Sara’s face.
“They’re pretty.” Kokomi holds her stare. “They’re pretty, Sara.”
They’re not. She knows they aren’t. Her scars aren’t ugly, but they’re a disruption in her skin. They soil how smooth her skin had once been.
“...Okay.” They both know that’s not going to get rid of Sara’s insecurity, but this goes towards the collection of gestures Kokomi puts into showing Sara she’s loved.
“Thank you,” Kokomi says. “Now let me bandage this cut.” She turns towards their drawer of medical supplies. “You really should go easier in sparring.”
Every week, Sara comes home sporting new battle wounds, but there isn’t an alternative. She refuses to back down from the challenges. Since her dojo had begun offering knife combat instead of just hand-to-hand combat, Sara’s gathered more and more cuts. It doesn’t help that she scars easily.
“You know.” Kokomi’s holding a replenishing cream and bandages. “I heard a theory.”
“Yeah?” Sara offers a somewhat shaky smile.
Kokomi takes the offering with both hands and beams back. Something inside Sara wells up with affection. She bites her lip. Absently, she recognizes this moment as one where her fortune is emphasized. She’s the one Kokomi is smiling at.
“The most beautiful people are the ones with the most scars.” Kokomi examines Sara’s cut. “They have proof they’ve lived on their skin. That’s pretty impressive, don’t you think?”
“Which character has a hot scar?”
Kokomi laughs once. “All scars tell a story.”
“Character.” Sara cannot be deterred that easily.
“...Robin.”
Ah. She is very pretty. The Stranger Things character is hands-down the reason Sara started the show.
Sara jerks when Kokomi applies the cream to her raw skin.
“My apologies.”
“It didn’t hurt.” The flinch was only a natural reaction.
Kokomi nods. Sara watches the reflection of Kokomi in the mirror, her eyes narrowed, focusing on the cut. Her fingers are gentle. They move with intent, covering the wound and deftly wrapping it up.
“Do you need cream anywhere else?” Kokomi scans Sara’s body.
“No.” She usually puts her scar cream on before sleeping. “But thank you.”
“Always.” Kokomi twists the lid to the cream back on. “Now come,” she says, her voice warm. “You’ve got goosebumps. I’ll pick you out an outfit.”
Sara glances at the mirror one last time, at her scarred body, and then follows Kokomi. She does have proof she’s lived. But she also has scars that have been kissed, and wounds that have been dressed and cared for. Despite her removed distaste for her scars, they are also proof that she’s been loved. That Kokomi loves her. And that, she’s lucky for.