Archive of Our Own

“I love you,” you whisper to yourself, silently. As if repeating those words could somehow make them come true, lies spoken upon your tongue, to become tangible. They would one day (surely?), you tell yourself as you look upon Itoshi. Discreetly, you hope.

You mindlessly doodle on your page — an eye, the rest of the face, so stupidly unconscious that it unintentionally forms into his face. The realisation is sudden, one moment the page is empty, and the next it's covered in the light strokes of pencil. But, it was pencil, thank god, as you furiously erase it; though, faint marks of the drawing still were imprinted into the page.

You disregard it, scribbling numbers down, in pen this time. To hopefully cover up the marks, or at least divert attention. Bachira would occasionally copy off your notes, and he’d never give up a chance to tease you about your stupid fucking crush. He was supportive, sure, but whenever the topic came up you'd be the one to melt into a puddle of shame.

Nevertheless, it persisted. Unconsciously, your eyes settle once again on the back of his head, tracing over his form. You long to sit next to him, but you've barely talked to him, too scared to. So it would forever be like this: you, the phantom haunting him, and him unknowing as ever.

A feeling of emptiness settles in your gut, and you're acutely aware of the coldness of your fingers — it is winter after all, and Isagi had always joked about you being some sort of ectothermic creature.

You wrap your hands together for warmth. It's difficult to write anything at all when it’s cold, your fingers stiff and completely unwilling to move. Wrapped together like some prayer, and you were, praying that perhaps one day he’d glance your way. That maybe he'd smile toward you, and you smiled back, that everything would turn out the way you always wanted it to be. But, the notion of him smiling is unfamiliar, and your brain fails to conjure up an image.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, he's completely and utterly focused on the teacher. He was a good student — that was part of the charm — but nonetheless cold and unbothered. You wouldn't think that of him, would rather have expected him to be too arrogant to listen to anyone except himself.

You let out a quiet sigh, unlacing your fingers and picking up your pen again. Back once again to the stupid numbers on your page, but maths had always been one of your better subjects. It was not that it was easy, simply mindless. The same formulae, the same method, and the repetitive movement of your wrist: additional, subtraction, multiplication, division. In a way, it was a nice distraction from the boy two seats in front of you. Your poor heart begs for a break.

The teacher, thankfully, doesn't stop. She prattles on, keeping your hand and head occupied. It was mind-numbing, sure, but you didn't hate it. She doesn't ask any questions, just continues the neverending drone of words, and you briefly wonder how her lungs haven't collapsed in on themselves yet.

You're barely lucid when the lunch bell rings, and you instinctively stand up. Physically, you’re there — packing up your books and pens — but mentally, you’re somewhere else. Your fault entirely, of course. You probably shouldn't have stayed up til, what, three, doing who knows what? You’re on autopilot when you walk to the cafeteria, picking up your tray of food before glancing around at the tables.

Isagi waves you over, and you sit there next to him. Bachira’s there too, across from you, and he gives you a cheeky wave.

It's not fair that you only shared one class with Isagi and Bachira, and those two were so luckily stuck together. It's like they knew how to make you suffer. It was only in PE, which hardly mattered anyway because they were both so good at sport — soccer, specifically — and you weren't, left behind in the fucking dust. By some stupid stroke of fate, Itoshi was also in your PE class and got to see you in your most undignified moments: tripping over your own shoelaces, slipping in a puddle of water, spluttering from having to run laps.

That was assuming he looked at you at all, of course. You've, embarrassingly enough, looked at him for a sufficient amount of time to know that he doesn't look at you, and you wouldn't be surprised to hear that he doesn't even know your name.

Or, maybe Isagi had mentioned you to him briefly. They were rivals, after all, at least to your knowledge. As if this was some anime where he was the main character and Itoshi was his nemesis. Isagi would make a good main character, he had the right vibe. And Itoshi would make a good antagonist — cold, unbothered, and good at virtually everything. Then, Bachira would be his sidekick-rival? His best friend? Where would you come into play then, or would you be just as invisible as you were to Itoshi?

"Oi, [Surname]? Yoo-hoo? Earth to [Surname]?"

You snap out of your thoughts, staring blankly down at your food, before looking at Bachira. "What's up?"

He chews his food happily, before replying, "Nothing, just wondering why you were so out of it today. Were you, perhaps, thinking about a certain someone?"

You feel your face heat up slightly, caught in the act. He smirks knowingly, that smug asshole, because he knows he's right, and snickers. Isagi, bless his heart, is less of a bastard and pats you on the back reassuringly.

You can't help that Itoshi's good-looking. It's not your fault that he has the prettiest eyes you've ever seen, a bright blue. Brighter than the soft, pale sky, so much so that they almost glow. You wonder what they'd look like focused on you. It's not your fault that you're drawn to them, surely not, because it's almost an instinctual thing. Like a moth to light, all crowded around the singular source of light.

It's pathetic, really, how much of a bystander you are, too fearful to say a word, to even stand in his presence. As if a peasant like you could tread upon his footsteps. He, the king. As if you would dirty the dignified aura around him, the calm countenance he kept up, and it would be the same blue as his eyes. Melancholic, almost.

You stiffen when someone joins the three of you; sat across from you, next to Bachira. Shit, you zoned out again. It's only when you look up and see Itoshi that you almost choke on your rice. Bachira gives you that smug grin again, and you resist the urge to punch him, opting to focus on your meal.

It was, of course, Isagi who’d waved him over. Isagi, who had a serious case of main-character syndrome. He somehow managed to know — or even be friends with — pretty much every goddamned person in this school. Which was especially surprising with guys like Itoshi, who barely seemed to give a shit about anyone else, let alone be friends with.

You sneak a look at Itoshi from under your lashes, subtly, you hoped. Letting your eyes flicker over his face. It's not something you look at often, you never had the chance to properly observe him for a long time, except for the familiar sight of the back of his head. So it was only occasional glances and the grade yearbook: when you'd run your thumb over the grainy texture of his photo, because somehow he managed to look good — in school photos! No one managed to look good in those, especially you, to which you ignore the picture of your own face, uncomfortably magnified.

You're still staring at him when he looks up and catches your gaze. Fuck. You shift your gaze away immediately — criminal, caught in the act — going back to the bowl of rice in front of you. Acting nonchalant about things was a skill, a skill you unfortunately did not have. So you just look down, head bowed, like an apology: sorry for staring at you, sorry for thinking about you. You want to curse, tear out your heart and stomp on it, because this is not you. You aren't this weak, aren't this pathetic. Yet it keeps beating, the rapid thump in your chest, and you want to tell it to stop, slow down.

So the table is silent. You, too nervous to say anything. Itoshi, who didn't care enough to start a conversation. Isagi and Bachira, probably waiting for you to say something, anything, to him.

Silence. You hate it.

I love you.

The words are almost comedic, you think, as you scan them blankly, scrawled upon the tiny piece of paper. Like this was some awful high-school drama, where the heroine confesses to the hero and they'd get their happily ever after. Was love too strong of a word, perhaps? Yet, 'like' did not feel right. Was it not love that caused your heart to thump against your ribcage, and brought the unconscious flush to your cheeks? If not love, then what else would it be?

You couldn't sign your name, not ever. That would be clear evidence, like a curse written upon paper. You couldn't, never, because it felt far too personal for your own liking. Not his, either, too directed. So it was just like that, three simple words, so pathetically cliché that you could almost laugh if it weren't yourself in the situation.

Even so, he had to know it was you somehow. You weren’t one of those who openly liked him, of course not. There were other girls, who followed his trail, so much braver than you. You looked upon them jealously, when they had introduced themselves to him. Looked upon them again with relief, when he regarded them with that same cold and unbothered attitude he gave to anything else that wasn't soccer.

Yet they'd persist, as you would as well, like weeds constantly trying to block out each other. They were like leaves growing to reach the sun — the sun that was Itoshi Rin — and you, who was always weak and small, lost. It was delirious of you to think that you had even a sliver of a chance. You hoped that perhaps he did like you back, at the very least as a friend and not as a stranger.

The slip of paper in your hand is crumpled, but you don't dare unfold it. You couldn't possibly set your eyes on it, lest you'd toss it once again in the nearest trash can, not before ripping it into tiny shreds. So you ignore it, pretend that it didn't exist, not in this instant. It would only exist when it needed to be, when you would consciously pass it to him somehow, then disappear again. Out of sight, out of mind.

Unfortunately, it was not out of mind, torturing you endlessly. Your luck ran dry a long time ago, and the scenario replays in your head, again and again. Would you put it in his locker? No, because he wouldn't know it was you. Would you give it to him directly? No, because you'd be too embarrassed to do that.

Then, what? What would you do, if you wanted to tell him at all? You wanted his grip on your heart gone, even if it resulted in pain and emptiness. Pain, but your poor heart would get a break. If it is not meant to be, then so be it. It is, you think, better to know the unchanging truth, than to sit in your own delusions. In an ideal world, you’d confess confidently, and he’d love you back. Yet, the world was not perfect, far from it.

You’re walking down the empty hallway when you see Itoshi again. Empty, because it was lunch and everyone was either eating or outside. Or both. You were only here because you needed to talk to your teacher about something. You didn’t expect anyone else, least of all him, so you almost flinch when you see him. Walk past, ignore him. That’s what you tell yourself.

You trip, and a curse slips out of your mouth. What the hell was that? Had you gotten to the point of tripping over the goddamn air, now? He falters in his steps, a decision on whether or not he should help you. He’d gain nothing from the interaction as far as he’s aware, and you fully expect him to move on, avert his eyes. To pretend he didn’t see you, the embarrassment you were. So it’s even more surprising when he stops in front of you and reaches out his hand.

Shit, what do you do? Do you take his hand, when yours are covered in dust and clammy with sweat? You couldn't possibly leave him hanging, surely. Oh, but, you realise, the slip of paper is still there, crumpled. You wouldn't be surprised if the words had become illegible, almost hoped they were. No evidence of your stupidity, nothing.

So you take his hand, focusing your eyes on his grip on you. Not on his face, otherwise you'd undoubtedly break into a blush, to see his indifferent eyes upon yours. You couldn't, no, your heart couldn't take it — already palpitating at the feeling of his hand in yours, as you slip the paper into his palm.

He pulls you up, and you're briefly self-conscious — are you heavy, perhaps? The ideal woman, hammered into you by media and books and movies, was feather-light. She could be picked up without a sweat, carried by her knight in shining armour, loved. But the thought is gone when he lets go of your hand again, and you curse the fact that yours lingers in place, missing the momentary warmth he provided.

You want to take his hand in yours again, to study the way it fit around your palm, because you were too scared to even move your hand when he pulled you up. Hadn't noticed what it had felt like, except the warmth — now, the lack of it. You know he feels the tiny piece of paper, pathetic in its size, as he balls his hand into a fist. He was kind enough to not read it in your presence, thank god. You might've melted into the floor if he did.

You murmur a thank you, before scurrying off. He's silent as ever, and you don't turn back. Out of sight, out of mind. At least, you try to convince yourself to forget about it, to think about something more important.

Ah, right, you did need to talk to your teacher.

“I love you,” you whisper, like a prayer to yourself. It had almost become a ritual, performed instinctively every day. Some way to prevent yourself from going insane, was it?

It's almost as if nothing has happened when the next day came, as you took your usual seat behind him, like you hadn't handed him that note. Or perhaps he simply hadn't read it? Tossed into the nearest trash can, as it should be, because it was completely and utterly pathetic. No one even confessed in /that sort of way; it was always face-to-face or signed love letters decorated with flowers. A whole list of reasons why, so that it felt completely real, to which yours felt false, as if the beating of your heart was some delusion formed by your brain.

Or perhaps he had read it, simply thought nothing of it. Thought maybe it was a mistake that you had the paper in your palm, or that it was a lie contrived up from some game of truth or dare. Either way, he didn't approach you, and you didn't approach him. You could almost act like nothing had happened, if not for the burning memory in your head. It doesn’t want to leave; a constant reminder.

The teacher calls on you to answer some question, and you respond in perfect English. While you might not be the best at soccer, at least you have something going for you. You hope that maybe, that could at least make you stand out slightly from all the other girls, but they too had things they were exceptionally good at, so you were all the same. Good at maths, at science, at anything that you weren’t good at.

You're painfully aware of how popular he is. Isagi would tell you that whenever Itoshi opened his locker on Valentine's Day, a small cascade of letters would flutter out — pink, white, blue. Like butterflies or flower petals, and he’d look on, unbothered, like he was used to it. None of them had ever been from you, too embarrassed to think of putting your thoughts down on paper. And none of them seemed to ever be answered, either, so there was really no reason to write one, except perhaps to say that they'd actually tried.

You hadn’t though, barely. So, ultimately, there was no excuse for you.

There was nothing in your head except the imaginary conversations that played out. In which you were much prettier, much smarter, much more confident. It would be love at first sight ideally, but reality was always too far off. At heart, you’re a sucker for clichés, an intense yearning for that happily ever after. The heroine, who would be swept off her feet into an embrace, a kiss, her name whispered softly. The hero, mysteriously charming yet loving all the same, and you wish it was your name he called.

Would it turn out alright, perhaps? Or would you be swept away by all those other letters, gone? If love is like this, then you do not want to be in love.

I love you.

You’re reminded once again of the foolish little note you’d written. Every goddamn time you see him, you’re reminded. It’s like your brain is against you, constantly replaying it.

This reason, this time, is that he’s standing in front of you as you pack up your books. You’d wanted to finish your train of thought, so you’d stayed behind a moment to finish scribbling down your notes. Everyone else had left, and the teacher was chill enough to leave the room unlocked. He told you he’d come back after a minute or two though, to lock the door again when you’d finished.

Well, at least you thought everyone had left. You visibly stiffen when you look up to meet Itoshi’s gaze, almost dropping the books in your arms. How long had he been standing there? He looks awfully amused — well, as amused as someone like him could be — when he sees that you’ve finally realised that he’s there. Fuck. He knows that he has a complete chokehold on you.

You slip the books into your bag, as quickly and elegantly as you could. They get caught on something for a minute, because everything has to go wrong. Of course, of course. It was inevitable that the moment he’s watching you you’re reduced to a bumbling mess. Stupid heart, stupid body. You resist the temptation to curse out loud.

“[Surname],” he says, and you look up again. Three thoughts form simultaneously in your head. One, he actually knows your name, somehow. So you were not some anonymous girl chasing after him. Two, you like the way it sounds when it rolls off his tongue. A part of you wants him to say it again and again, just to hear his voice. Three, what did he want with you? As far as you were concerned he didn’t talk to anyone that he didn’t care about.

“I need to talk to you.”

The words don’t register at first. Your mind feels like mud right now — quite possibly the worst time to be like that — and you need to repeat the words in your head again. I. Need. To. Talk. To. You. You blink at him, rolling the words around your brain. They were there on your tongue, like a hard candy that refused to dissolve. Present, but hardly deciphered. He must think of you as slow, stupid, surely.

“Ah,” you mumble, like a fool. “Okay.”

There’s an awkward silence in which neither of you move, before he sighs and lightly grabs your wrist. A gentle tug, and you sling your bag over your other shoulder, before following him. To where? But you don’t ask him, for fear that your voice may collapse at any point now. Plus, you wouldn’t want to come off as annoying.

He leads you down the hallway, the light grip on your wrist. He reaches a door, pushes it open with his hand, letting go of you. You follow him in, and he closes the door behind you. Click. But you know that it was not locked. You were safe to leave if you wanted.

You hadn't been in this room specifically before, is it an English classroom? It’s one of the nicer rooms, thank god. The musty smell of some classrooms are often intolerable, but this one just smells faintly of books.

A delicate breeze flows into the classroom; it’s chilly. Though it’s technically the beginning of spring, winter persisted, as it always does. It somehow managed to work its way through the cracks of the buildings, despite the melting snow. Not cold enough for snow, but still cold. The buds would start forming atop cherry blossom trees, soon. You shuffle your hands deeper into the sleeves of your jacket, missing the warmth of his hand around your wrist, no matter how light it was. You turn to look at Itoshi again.

“What… do you need?” you ask, as confidently as you can. Just pretend that nothing had happened, that this is something related to school and not the note you’d impulsively given to him when he helped you up. You can barely look him in the eye, and your heart seems to seize up.

He’s quiet, regarding you with a curious tilt of his head. You must fill the silence again, to apologise, to take back your words. “Ah, if it’s about that note…” you mumble, faltering. The words, stuck in your throat. You don’t want to refute it entirely, but at the same time, you do. “It’s… I… I didn’t…” You swallow, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to breathe. Oh, you cannot muster up any excuse. “I, um, I wasn’t…”

“Shh,” he whispers, “you love me?”

You blush then, it felt all too real when he said it, and you feel the consequences of your actions catching up to you. You shouldn’t have taken his hand, shouldn’t have tripped, shouldn’t have written that godforsaken note in the first place. You want to forget it ever happened, to deny it altogether.

“I… no…?” you mumble, almost pathetically. He knows it’s a lie, and so do you.

"Then what was that note about? Do you expect me to just ignore that completely?"

Embarrassingly enough, you do want him to do exactly that. You were regretting passing that note to him now that he was in front of you. Scrutinising you, and you feel infinitely small, perhaps small enough to shrink into a speck of dust and float away. You don’t look at him, instead focusing your gaze on the sliver of light that filtered through the curtained window of the classroom, the delicate dust motes suspended in the air. Oh, how you wish nothing more than to be one of those: unliving, aimless.

So there’s nothing but silence in the room, interrupted by the occasional passing of footsteps in the hallway. There’s the faint laughter and chatter of those outside, of enjoyment: tag, ball, and whatever the hell else people spent their lunch break doing. The typical rowdiness you’d expect from teens with too much pent-up energy after sitting in math class for an hour. It’s muffled, but still discernible.

But, it is silent here. Enough so that you could hear the hammering of your heart. You wish you could talk to it, to tell it to read the room and shut up. Yet, it goes on. Thump, thump, thump. I love you. I do not love you. I love you.

There’s a delicate touch on your face, and he tilts your head slightly to face him. It’s faint enough for you to resist if you so wanted, but you weren’t in the position to. Too embarrassed. You’re aware of the heat of your face, but there’s nothing you could do to stop it, choosing to ignore it instead. So you look at him, his impassive gaze on you (was there something deeper, or was it just you imagining things?). Ah fuck, he’s pretty.

What do you say, if you were to say anything? Breathe in, breathe out. Your eyes flicker around, constantly moving. Seeing the clock on the wall, ticking mockingly, constantly in your peripheral. You do not — cannot — settle your eyes on his face. A hummingbird, always in flight.

“Hey,” he says, “look at me.” He wasn’t forceful, but you knew he expected you to comply. It was your fault you were in this situation anyway.

You swallow nervously, looking at him again. Your brain helpfully reminds you that this is something you want: for him to look back into your eyes, just like you’d hoped. Yet, things never really went how you’d expected them to go. In the stupid little scenarios in your head, you were never this awkward.

But, that had never been you, had it? She, the you in your mind, was shapeless, defined purely by whatever had caught your interest at that time. Mouldable. He was not real either, only the impression of him and the bright blue that you so closely associated with him. If he hugged her, then he would have arms, she would have a body. Only corporeal when they needed to be, nonexistent when not. The question: if a tree falls in an empty forest, does it make a sound?

There is the beating of your heart, his light touch on your face, and the sight of his eyes on yours. Everything that does not need to exist will not need to exist, not in this instant. No legs to move, arms to hug, lungs to breathe. Fleetingly, you’re conscious of them, like a sharp sting to your head. But they fade away again, to nothing. The answer is, if there is no one around to perceive it, then it does not make a sound.

“What do you really think about me?”

I love you, you think. I want to hug you, hold your hand, and relish the warmth it provided. I want to look at you and for you to look back at me the same. I want you to smile at me, and I’d smile back just as brightly, a mirror to the light. But, you cannot say that. Do you lie? Can you lie, when he’s looking at you like that? Blue, blue, blue, the colour of his eyes. Calm down. What is the worst that can happen? Isagi and Bachira would surely be disappointed in you for not taking this chance, they would.

“I…” Just three words. You can do it. You close your eyes unconsciously, feeling the words constrict your throat. What if he thinks you’re weird? What if he says no? What if he hates you? What if, what if, what if. They’re bubbling up, tearing up your throat. Say it. So you breathe in, deep.

“I love you.”

“...”

Quiet. Oh, it is too quiet. There is nothing but silence, even the muffled laughs from outside seem to have simmered down. The winter breeze sweeps through the room again, cold, cold, cold. You shiver, eyes still closed, you cannot muster up the courage to look at him. It is dark. Love is exactly that. Love is quiet, silent, lonely. Love is cold, dark, unknowing. Love is painful, heart-wrenching, gut-twisting.

His hand on your cheek moves slightly, brushing over your skin. It is warm, too warm, against the wintry air. You want him to say something. You focus on the beat of your heart, distracting yourself. You focus first on your own breaths, then his, quiet. You focus on the ticking of the clock, the sounds of the outside.

And, then…

A quiet exhale, from him. “Can I…” Is he nervous, too? “Can I kiss you?”

You feel your heart stutter, head barely registering the words. Can I kiss you? Did you hallucinate that, some delusion formed by the sheer restlessness you felt? Can I kiss you? Did he really say that? You open your eyes again, uncertain. Unsure. His eyes, on yours. You’re quiet, for a moment forgetting that you needed to answer.

“You…” you breathe out, quiet. “You can.”

And his lips are on yours, feather-light when his nose bumps lightly against yours. But, he presses closer to you, and you feel your eyes flutter shut again, instinctive. You feel, really feel — his hand cupping your cheek, the softness of his breath, his heart hammering along with yours. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.

You’re already breathless when he pulls away, giving him an awkward smile. He returns it slightly, a gentle smile. You’ve never seen him smile, but it suits him, strangely enough. You’re warm, the feeling of his hand on your face, the lingering warmth of his lips, the blossoming in your chest. Love is warm then, you were wrong.

“Kiss me again?” you whisper, and he does. The soft bump of his forehead against yours, and he lets out a quiet chuckle. You’re both awkward at this, you know. It is alright, though, today must be a day of firsts. First for you, first for him, first day of spring. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Perhaps, then, winter has truly passed.

His face is dusted with pink too, when you look at him again. Meeting his gaze, truly this time, blue. “So?” you murmur, smiling a bit. “Your answer, to my note?”

He smiles back, subdued but warm nonetheless. “Did those kisses not answer your question? But, if you really want to hear it…”

His eyes focused on yours, the rapid thump of your heart. Warm, and the world suddenly seems so much brighter, so much clearer.

“...then, I love you too.”