Archive of Our Own

I try as hard as I can to love
something I don’t know

— Nakahara Chūya, “Fig Leaves” from The Poems of Nakahara Chūya

When Momo first met Takakura Ken it was in first year of university. They’re both literature majors, working towards a common goal. 

They first get paired up together in a group peer review, Momo takes his red marks seriously. They felt too harsh. They seemed to stain her paper, and ever since then, it had been hard for her to even begin to explain how unfair it felt. 

She approaches the boy, his glasses alight while he sifts through the pages of his books. Momo grimaces. He had been too rude. Her article couldn’t be anything but her own. He reviewed her work and he had left marks upon red circles in bright colors. It revealed her errors, and it made her feel ridiculously naive. What could he possibly know about the kindness of a peer review? It has to be proper criticism, not tear it to shreds-cism. 

Momo approaches him. “Hey,” she says. 

He jolts, and when he spots her his face is entirely neutral. It’s smooth, placid like paper. 

She sneers. 

Her hands come up to slide him her paper. “You did this, right?”

He glances down and then back. “It’s required in our group work.” 

She clicks her tongue. “Some excuse. Why’d you correct me here?” she points to a passage. “That’s conducive to my point.” 

He stares at it and then he looks back at her. “It’s not though, your phrasing isn't cohesive. You should rewrite it again.” 

Momo feels her face twitch. Oh, this guy is dead meat. “What could you possibly know?” 

“I don’t,” he admits. “We’re all learning.” He pushes his glasses up. 

Momo analyzes him like he’s an amoeba under a petri dish. He doesn’t look at her, returning to his work. 

She scoffs loudly, snatching the paperback and stalking off from the library. 

Ken watches her, the sway of her earrings and her fists tightened. His heart thrums, and he focuses. 

That had been their first meeting. 

Their second meeting had gone even worse. He had sat right next to her, and when he looked over to see who it was she had made a face realizing it was him. 

Ken’s used to it, he has to say. Throughout his high school career, he had gotten second glances of disappointment whenever he sat beside anyone. This had been no different. 

So, when she leans over to ask him what book he has before him. He tells her; like he would tell anyone who asks. 

He mentions UAPs and Momo, she scoffs. Cruel and unusual. 

“That’s not real,” she points out. Ken looks at her, ready to open his mouth to disagree when they are interrupted by the professor arriving. 

Momo has to face back to listen to the lecture. He doesn’t know why he decided to sit by her of all people. Call it a trick of the light. 

When the class begins to shuffle out, Ken stops her at the exit. “Have you never seen the photographs? There’s living proof of its existence.” He doesn’t mean to dogpile, but really, she managed to irritate him at best. 

Momo only scoffs. “Is that the reason? It’s pretty lame, don’t you think?” 

Ken makes a face, his glasses glinting off the light of the fluorescence. “You believe in what, exactly?” 

She smiles at him, a proud one. “Ghosts are real, haven’t you ever seen an exorcism?” 

He’s dismissive because who in their right mind would believe in that? “Don’t be naive, spirits aren’t real.” 

Momo stares at him. “Excuse me, but half the world believes in them. It’s a huge cultural impact. All of the oral storytelling, the mythology behind spirits and yokai, it’s real. It’s connected.” 

Ken keeps walking ahead. “Sure, if you believe in the fairytales of the dead.” 

Momo follows after him, enraged by the blase attitude he’s delivering. “Don’t mock the dead, they still exist around us.” 

He shakes his head, refusing to listen to anything else. “The dead are dead,” he responds finally. A little rough, but his point still stands. “Living organisms are the existence around us, it’s proof that there’s life somewhere else in the galaxy. Aliens, cryptids, those are connected.” 

“You just don’t get it, if you can say that, then what’s so different about believing in ghosts?” 

He shifts his messenger bag, his hands coming to adjust his glasses. “Apples and oranges,” he responds simply. 

Momo charges in, full of fire. “That’s not a definitive response!” 

“It is too!” He doesn’t know what’s come over him. She came in like a tornado at him when he reviewed her papers. He can’t help but think she had made an impression on him at that moment. Her words from her writing still carry a weight in his mind that he wishes his own had. He’s envious of her. Ayase Momo can weave stories of the paranormal in a way that makes it interesting, his own are just jumbled garbage, parsed together by frenzied thoughts. His own words make no sense. Hers makes all of the points he wishes he could make. She has heart, depth, and passion. He’s precise, calculated, and cold. 

He yearns for that. For that singular warmth, he can’t name. It’s why he’s able to fight with her now. 

She shakes her head at him. “You’re so wrong, and I can prove you wrong.” 

“Well, if you dare me to go into a tunnel, I’m not going.” 

“I wasn’t going to do that, but count your days.” 

“Big words,” he mocks. 

Momo’s eye twitches, and he nearly smiles. She turns on her heel in a rush. 

He can only watch her leave. 

The third time they met. It’s by chance again. They were in the same classes. So, he really shouldn’t leave it to fate to mock them both. 

There was a paranormal newsletter published within that same week. He knew who it was just by the title and the design alone.

Ayase Momo had created something of a magazine. It had become something their classmates talked about, even their professors were interested. Ken didn’t think anything of it because really, what’s so special about it? 

He knows she’s a great writer, but once he actually looked at his school email in the library and opened the newsletter, his mind became enraptured. 

He grew lost in the tales she had talked about, even her own experiences with the spirit world from family involvement. How she can be so infuriating, but weave about a collection of memoirs so easily. The care she handles each tale, and the promise of a better tomorrow despite their grief. 

He wonders if this is something he could do too. To walk in the light she’s created.

Ken becomes inspired. He starts his own too because what better way to have someone you admire to be able to mirror their passion in the only way you know how. 

The love of writing. 

That had been mistake number one for Takakura Ken. 

Momo had been running her newsletter for the last two years. The first year had started great until one of her classmates decided to do his own. Takakura Ken. The name appears before her in sharp letters, oozing black sludge. It felt like a monster’s maw, in her mind’s eye. 

Ugh, she can’t stand him. The way he slouches, that horrible blasé appearance he has. He’s got that sort of internalized stoicism that grinds her gears. She had started hers, and then he came in with his alien nonsense! It’s like he did it to prove some point. Well, whatever, she doesn’t believe in the extraterrestrials anyway. Momo looks at her drafts of notes for her next issue. She had interviewed one local woman about her experience with a korpokkur. She had corresponded with her about this when she had been doing submissions in the northern region. 

Momo looks over her notebook full of the lesson notes, and before she can leave. The professor waves her down to the podium once everyone begins filing out. 

She walks down with a frown, feeling a tad suspicious. He returns her paper after their peer review group. She sees the red marks and knows, immediately, who is behind this. “What’s this?” 

He peers at her. “The peer review has been completed, that’s for you,” he says. 

“For me? Why the over-excessive amount of red?” She demands, and she exhales lightly. Kindness, remember that. 

“Why?” She repeats, realizing that’s still not a substantial request to ask of the old guy. She schools her features regardless, trying to remain as neutral as possible. It’s failing, miserably. 

The older man can only laugh. “Ayase-san, you know what this is. Look over it, it’s good for you.” 

“But why are there so many marks? I busted my butt writing this for hours last week.” She’s trying not to be flushed with anger, but it’s hard not to be. 

Her professor only shakes his head, not giving her much of a response. Professor Yamagishi always had that way of bypassing her outbursts. Momo had been working on it, dammit. 

Yamagishi only closes his bag, slipping the straps over his shoulder. “Takakura-san reviewed it for you since he had been your partner.” 

Momo can only puff out her cheeks in aggression. Ugh, that bastard again. “And?” 

Professor Yamagishi only offers her a smile. A tender one that is telling her quietly that enough is enough. “You can discuss it with him if it’s bothering you.” 

Momo scoffs. She can’t seem to control the aggression she feels. Every time she remembers Takakura Ken she feels an abysmal amount of frustration overwhelm her. He had started his damn newsletter at the same time she launched hers. Now, he even asked the same professor to help support his stupid project, just like she did. And now, he’s tearing her writing to shreds. It’s bullshit. 

“Oh, and Ayase-san,” Professor Yamagishi begins. Momo sighs, ready to hear him scold her politely. 

“Yes, sir?” 

Professor Yamagishi gives her a sympathetic look. She feels a gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. This can’t be good. 

“Your newsletter, it has to be put on pause for the time being.” 

She reels back as if she’d been struck. “What?” she hisses. 

He shakes his head, his bald spot seeming to glisten in the light. “I do apologize, it’s been down on readers. If you wish, you can come by to my office during my conference period to speak more on it.” 

Momo can only gape at him, uncertain of what to even say. Then she feels that familiar sense of shame that she’s failed. Unbelievably so. 

“And what of Okarun’s newsletter?” She crosses her arms, already feeling rage that he gets to keep his own and she can’t even manage hers. She needed to rid herself of that awful feeling; she had to redirect it onto someone else. It’s necessary. The only thing keeping her sane. 

Momo hears a voice close behind her, and it makes her hair stand on end. 

“I’m in the same boat as you, Ayase-san,” Ken says, his tone entirely too neutral. She can never see his eyes at this angle and it makes her lip curl. Jerkass. When did he even get here? Momo suddenly thinks, has he been there the entire time?

Professor Yamagishi can only look away from the two writers. “I do apologize to you both. If need be, please, you are more than welcome to come discuss any solutions for this.” 

Momo huffs, looking at the boy beside her. He doesn’t even pass a glance at her and that pisses her off even more. It’s like she’s a spec of dust in his eyes. Insignificant. 

Ugh, jerk, jerk, jerk! 

She’s about to open her mouth when Ken interrupts her. Probably on purpose! “We can work on something together, maybe convene the two newsletters?” He suggests. His hand comes up to adjust his glasses and Momo can only stare at him. She shakes her head. 

Unfortunately for her, Professor Yamagishi brightens at the idea. Oh, no, no, no, no! 

“That’s a wonderful compromise, Takakura-san!” The older man exclaims.

Momo can only watch in desperation as everything seems to go out of her control. This is not what she wants! After the guy beside her insulted everything about her passion, there was no way she could work with him. 

She grits her teeth, forcing a smile. “Yeah, it’s great. Just swell.” 

“Wonderful! Well, then, you two can work together on the rebranding. Once that’s done you can bring it to me for approval, yes?” 

The two nod, bowing their heads to the older man. Professor Yamagishi beams, looking proud at the two of them. “You two are my top writers in creative writing, so please continue doing your best.” 

“Yes, sir,” they both say at the same time. Momo begins to leave, drifting out of the classroom when Ken is walking beside her. 

“Ah, Ayase-san,” he begins. 

She rounds on him. “What? Happy?” 

He looks at her, vexed by the question. “Huh? What are you talking about?” 

“Oh don’t play dumb, you were praying for my downfall.” 

“Did you not hear, Professor Yamagishi? We’re both getting cut. It wasn’t just you.” 

Momo can only scowl at him. She can finally see his eyes at this angle, and he’s looking at her in disbelief. Exasperation is evident in his features. Good, he gets to finally show some emotion. It makes her feel proud that she can achieve this. “It’s karma. Since you decided to do the same thing I was doing.”

Ken scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please, you’re still on that. I didn’t just magically decide to steal the spotlight from you.” 

“You did! You saw I was doing something involving the paranormal and decided to do your stupid alien articles.” 

“They’re not stupid,” he fires back. “They’re real and they have actual proof of their existence!” 

“When you insulted my passion for the one thing that keeps people together through their grief, I should’ve known what kind of person you are,” she rebukes. Ken’s face twists, and it makes a pit in her stomach form. Maybe, that was a little harsher than she intended. 

A beat passes, and Momo moves then an apology at the tip of her tongue. “Hey, look–” 

He shakes his head, deflating. “No, I know. See you around,” he says then. 

Ken leaves, letting her simmer alone on the words she had spoken. 

Momo was running late. She grabs her things, busting her ass to get to the next train before the time strikes her out. She needed to be on campus thirty minutes ago. She had overslept, feeling guilty after everything she had said yesterday. 

It’d be fine, she would find Okarun and she’ll apologize for her words. She didn’t mean it like that, but another part of her wanted him to hurt. He had started it, she grouses internally. Ever since he told her the paranormal wasn’t real. That it was unsubstantial theories, she had been out to get him since. He had snubbed her in a way that felt irreversible. She thinks of her grandmother, and all of the hard work she puts into her spirit work. It makes her blood boil that someone could deny the very real passion behind it. 

When Momo walks on campus she goes in search of Ken. She stops by Professor Yamagishi first. The older man reminds her they need to be sure they’re working together to release a new issue of their combination newsletter. 

She almost forgot. In a way. She wanted to forget he had been the reason. He had saved her lifeline, the only real work she ever loved doing. She has to be at least thankful for that.  

She pokes her head around the library and sees him there. He’s at one of the back tables, books piled out in front of him, he’s buried in his research. Momo goes to him, clutching the strap of her bag tighter to her. 

“Okarun,” she starts and he jolts. He looks up at her, surprise on his face. He almost looks excited to see her, until the light goes away and the glasses seem to block out the expression. Momo raises an eyebrow, ignoring the shift. 

“Ayase-san,” he acknowledges. He returns to his work and Momo just pulls out a chair and sits adjacent to him. He pauses for a moment, his eyes glancing at hers without her noticing. His heart thrums against his chest, and he ignores the feeling. 

“Look,” she starts, watching him scribble in his notebook. He doesn’t look up from it, and Momo thinks it’s better this way. She doesn’t have to recognize entirely what she’s about to do. She shouldn’t have to see the look on his face. She feels horrid that she was the cause. Ugh, curse her guilt. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she tells him. “I had been angry and it wasn’t right to lash out at you because of it.” 

There’s a moment that passes, and Ken clutches his pen. There’s a pounding in his ears, his heart hammering in his ribs. “Why?” 

Momo stares at him, and he lifts his head. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What do you mean why? I’m telling you I’m sorry because I went too far.” 

Ken doesn’t know why he says it. He likes to call it foot-in-mouth syndrome. He can’t help but push it with her. “What’s your motive?” 

Momo makes a face. “There’s no motive, what are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer her. There’s a silence that shrouds over them. Momo doesn’t know what else to say and all she can hear is the scratching of his pen against paper. “We have to work together anyway so we might as well get along,” she notes. She hates this. She didn’t want to, but he had been the one all too eager to do it in the first place. 

Ken stops moving his pen, his glasses falling to the tip of his nose. “What?” Then he remembers what he had said yesterday. It had been noble on his side, he had wanted to work with her; despite their differing views. He just wants to understand her. The embarrassment of his suggestion flooded his senses. Only this would happen to him. How could he possibly forget the noble declaration? He’s an idiot, he knows this much about himself. 

“You said yesterday that we would combine our newsletters. The paranormal and the aliens, right?” 

Ken swallows. “I did, didn’t I?” 

Momo laughs then, and his heart nearly stops at the way she looks. He has to turn his attention back to his research. He fumbles slightly, his pulse picking up in speed.

 “Did you forget about trying to save our respective asses?” 

“No, not at all,” he plays it cool. His attention is buried in his notes. This is good, he can just hide his face from her. 

Momo leans in, looking over the tomes. “Ro-swell?” 

“Yeah, it’s a nonfiction story about the Roswell Incident that occurred in 1947 in New Mexico.” 

“Can I see it?” She asks, before grabbing the novel. Ken nods, trying to focus his attention elsewhere. He realizes much to his horror that he’d been drawing over the same word for the last five minutes. 

She flips through the pages, stopping on a passage and reading it through. While she’s distracted Ken gets to look at her, she’s entirely focused on the novel. He watches the way her eyes move reading through the words. Her expression is entirely calm, she has long eyelashes he notes. The dimple on her cheek peeking through anytime she twists her mouth from side to side. She looks serene, occupying space in a way that makes him envy her. She can just approach anyone without having to second guess her existence. 

He feels a familiar pang, wishing he could be more like her. 

“Hey, so why do you believe in aliens?” She asks. 

He glances at her and her attention is focused on him. She blinks at him expectantly awaiting his next words. 

Ken manages somehow to give her an appropriate response. “Life can exist outside of Earth,” he states. “There’s been reports of it throughout history and science, it’s impossible to think we’re the only lifeforms in the universe.” 

She considers it for a moment. “Do you think they look like those green guys from the movies?” She wonders. 

He raises an eyebrow in response. “I think they could, but not entirely,” he explains. He looks at her expectantly as if asking for permission to continue. Momo gestures, seeming to understand the request. 

Ken decides to file that for later on what that could entail. “I think there are many types of species of Aliens, there’s an estimate somewhere that someone has spoken about their being six hundred and sixty-six lifeforms in our galaxy alone.”

Momo leans in. “In just the Milky Way?” 

He nods. “Just the Milky Way.” 

“There’s more?” 

“Of course,” he exclaims. “There’s over one hundred other galaxies. One of my favorites is the Andromeda Galaxy.” 

Momo blinks, a small smile forming on her lips. “That’s awesome, how did you even find those out?” 

“I read a lot,” he admits. “I like sci-fi, and I always liked reading non-fiction texts over astronomy. I had a niche and never let it go.” 

“Which is why you’re here now, huh?” She says, her eyes sparkle and it’s something he’s never seen on her face before. When he had first met Ayase Momo she was a relentless force within their group. She always had a spunk about her, a brightness that glimmered and never seemed to dim. There was her enthusiasm and her ambitious way of writing. In her words, she could move you with a single sentence, the way she could weave syntax together like needle and thread. It’s impeccable. He’s too meticulous and he knows this about himself. If he could be more like her, and her dedication to portraying the heart of her thesis. He would feel much better about himself. 

“It’s why I’m here, yeah,” he responds finally. Momo glances at him, and sets the book back, facing it the way he had it originally. Her attention to the things around her makes his heart flutter. 

“You know, I always had this vendetta against you. I thought you were like, copying me.” 

He makes a face. “No, I–” he stops himself. “Your work, left an impression on me.” 

Momo’s lashes flutter. “What?” 

He doesn’t look at her, and he sets his pen aside. “Take it with a grain of salt.” 

“Then explain it to me, I won’t take a half-assed answer, you know.” 

He purses his lips, the vulnerability on the tip of his tongue. He just can’t say it. He can’t bring himself to let her know that. Even though she’s entitled to it. 

“I think you can do better for yourself, you let your emotions drive you forward. I think you can achieve more if you can do it differently.” 

Momo scrunches her face in response. “I don’t get it. You’re saying my writing isn’t good enough unless it’s been wrecked apart?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know that,” he retorts. “Listen, you can do more if you just follow the rules.” 

She blinks at him, not entirely sure where the switch happened. They were having a good conversation. She thinks maybe this is his way of showing he cares. Weird. “You’re such a hard ass.” She stretches, rising from her seat. 

Ken doesn’t watch her gearing up to leave, he keeps his gaze on his notes. They were full of scattered doodles, and information about Chuya Nakahara from his poetry class. “I can take that.” 

Momo sighs. “Look, since we have to be team players I drew up some concepts for our next newsletter.” She reaches into her bag pulling out a neat folder. “You can take that and rip it apart how you will it or whatever.” 

He looks at it for a long moment. She offers him a smile. It’s strange how his one suggestion managed to keep her close to him. It’s what he’s wanted. He can’t let her know that. “Okay,” he says. 

Her smile drops. “Okay.” 

She goes to leave, expecting him to stop her. He doesn’t. 

Momo ignores the feeling of his eyes on her back.

It’s probably just nothing anyway. 

When Professor Yamagishi calls them both into his office. They expect to be told the same thing: that their idea to save their respective newsletters would ultimately be a dead end. 

Instead, he was there to let them know who would be the one to manage it. Momo had to sit there while he sang accolades about Ken beside her. 

“Takakura-san will be the head of the newsletter. Now, Ayase-san, don’t think you won’t have control over it. You will act as an assistant.” 

Momo has to sit there, feeling the blood pounding in her veins, the heat on her neck creeping up. She wants to cry. She wants to yell and scream. This was her baby. It was her dream. It had been her own thing she had formed with her own hands. When she had presented it to Professor Yamagishi in her first year, it had been her little life. She nods mechanically. She feels like she’s in a horrible nightmare. 

All of her insecurities rear its ugly head. 

Ken hasn’t said anything beside her. For some reason, that doesn’t give her any comfort at all. 

“Ayase-san, your thoughts?” It took her a moment to realize he had been talking to her. She comes to, looking at Professor Yamagishi and Ken. The latter’s eyes were shielded by his glasses, and it made her stomach clench, not being able to see his reactions. 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

Professor Yamagishi swallows. “I had asked if this would be alright with you. For you to allow Takakura-san to take over, you will still have control though don’t think that you won’t.” 

Momo nods. “That’s fine. That’s great, thank you.” 

“Wonderful, well do you two have some drafts ready before the debut?” The older man asks, changing the subject. Momo still feels nauseous. Ken hands over the folder to their professor. 

“Ayase-san did these, I drew up more notes beside them for the layout and more,” he says. Momo feels at a loss. The situation seems to lose all ground around her. She goes on auto-pilot, agreeing when she needs to and adopting silence when there’s nothing she can add on. 

Professor Yamagishi is ecstatic that they can work together in such a manner. Momo feels cold all over. She’s being dramatic. She knows this, when she leaves the office, she doesn’t hear Ken’s footsteps behind her. She feels the stinging of tears behind her eyes. 

“Ayase-san,” his voice is soft. She takes her sleeve and wipes her face. 

“Yeah, what’s up?” She disguises her voice, the hurt present there. She won’t let him see her be a wounded animal. She needs to lick her wounds in private. Where he won’t see.  

Ken notices though, he sees the way her eyes are red. His hands twitch beside him. How hard could it be to give her some words of affirmation? That she’s still just as important to this and that no title can change that? 

“I liked the spread you did, with the UAPs, and the bolded heading. I didn’t think of that before.” 

She gives him a weak smile. “Yeah, I still have an Adobe Illustrator subscription.” 

He doesn’t know what else to say. He hates that about himself. “Look–” he starts. 

Momo raises a hand. “Save the sympathy, please.” 

He looks down in shame. 

“I’ll be fine. It’s fine.” 

It’s not. He knows that. 

He doesn't say anything else. Momo leaves, the tears spilling forth and she can only let herself weep. It’ll be fine, it’ll be something new. 

She can learn from this, she hopes. 

Ken doesn’t see her for the rest of the week. They had already finished the first part of their newsletter, the final draft being looked over for editing purposes. 

He can’t help but feel guilty. Momo had worked hard for this. He didn’t think being inspired would be at the cost of her creativity. He hadn’t considered that in the equation. 

He tries not to think about it, but instead, he can’t stop thinking about her red eyes and her expression crumbling. 

It’s his fault. He had instigated, insulted her, and now offered their work together as a unit. Somehow, he had taken credit for all of it. It’s his doing. No wonder she feels so threatened by him. He practically wheedled himself in the one thing she loved. 

He’s in the library’s computer lab, setting everything up for the final look-over. 

Ken doesn’t hear Momo come in. “Okarun,” she starts. 

He looks up at her. “Yes?” 

She bites her lip, and pulls out another folder from her bag. “Take this, it’s the next few editions I had planned for the newsletter if you wanted to add those for the next issues.” 

Ken blinks, eyeing the thickness of the plastic. He’s suspicious. There’s no other reason why she would be this ahead of him. There’s another motive here. It makes him twitch. “Why?” 

Momo sighs. “I’m going to let you take over,” she says. 

Ken sits up, scratching his chair on the floor roughly. It makes a sharp noise that causes her to wince. 

“Why would you do that?” He asks hotly. He’s never felt this angry before. 

Momo shrugs. “It’s something I decided on the other day. It’s you, it has to be.” 

Ken’s face contorts, he looks upset. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes sharper than usual. “Why?” 

“I told you, it has to be you. You’re the one to do this, not me.” 

“So you’re giving up?” 

She stares at him, her hand still holding the folder. He’s looking only at her, and that makes her heart stutter in her chest. Why’s he offended on her behalf? Is this not something he wanted? 

“It has to be you,” she reiterates. She pushes the folder towards him and he pushes it back, the papers fall to the ground as she watches everything scatter around her. 

She looks at him aghast. 

“Why are you running away? This is something you worked for,” he states. He’s still not understanding. After everything he’d done to try and get her close. She’s going to throw it all away because she’s in the middle of a tantrum. 

“I’m not running away,” she replies, her cheeks burning. “I’m letting you take over completely. You wanted this more than me.” 

“That’s not true!” His voice rises, and he can’t seem to stop himself. 

Momo steps back at the intensity of his rebuttal. “Why do you care so much?” 

He draws back, exhaling a breath. He didn’t realize he had been holding it in. “You’re ridiculous, just stay.” 

Momo searches his face. “Why does it matter if I’m here or not?” 

“It matters to me,” he admits. Her face softens, and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. 

Wait. He can’t, he knows this. 

“Does it?” She asks, had she been wanting to hear him ask her to stay beside him? She steps forward then, anticipating his words more than ever. “Then tell me to stay, and I will.” 

Ken swallows, uncertain of how to say it without it sounding like a confession. He had made himself bury those feelings. He didn’t want them to come bubbling to the surface. She makes it easy though. He’s always been drawn to her. 

“Your work is important,” he whispers. “It’s been important. So will you just keep with it.” 

Momo deflates, her expression crestfallen. What had she been expecting? A love confession? She doesn’t exactly want to know why a part of her is disappointed. Maybe she had always liked Okarun. A deep part of her cherishes the way he uses red ink to mark her errors or the way he uses green on the passages he likes. She didn’t think he knew that though. It’s her little secret. She had kept every piece of his criticisms, despite it all. 

Ken bends to pick up all her drafts, putting them back into her folder. He hands it to her once it’s done. “Take this, and we can continue this later.” 

“Is it good enough for you?” She asks, she wants him to read between the lines. She wants him to realize what she means. She won’t clarify it though. 

“What? What are you asking?” He knows, a part of him knows what she wants. He can’t give this to her right now. 

“You know what I’m asking,” she stands firm. She tries to make him look at her. Instead, he can only stare at a point across from her head. One of the computer lab posters was uneven, he was staring at the way it was tilted. 

“Do you want to stay like this?” The unspoken words were: with me? Do you want to stay like this with me forever? Trapped in some dance, where everything seemed like a riddle. 

Ken swallows, shoving his hands in his pockets. She can’t know he’s shaking. 

“Let’s just continue to finish this for the sake of the newsletter.” 

Momo nods, the despondency evident in her voice. “Alright.” 

Ken doesn’t get anything done that day. She leaves the folder beside him, and Momo doesn’t say anything else. 

The silence seems to suffocate them. 

When she’s about to arrive at Professor Yamagishi’s office, she sees Ken already leaving it. He had mentioned something about going to talk with the professor. 

She hopes it is not what she thinks it is. What if he decides to leave their project? What if he also thinks of backing out? What would she do then? She doesn’t know what she would do without him. He’s just as important to this as she is. Who else could measure up to her ideas? He gives her advice when needed, and he filters everything out. All of her jumbled thoughts, he supports her when she throws it at him all at once. He can take all of that and help her put her words out in a way that makes sense. 

He’s an editor in all of the best ways. 

Professor Yamagishi spots her, welcoming her into his office. 

“Uh, was Okarun in here?” 

The older man looks surprised. “Ah, Takakura-san, yes he was.” 

“Why? Did he say something?” 

Professor Yamagishi gives her a knowing smile. Is she missing something? “He wanted to vouch for you.” 

Momo blinks, stunned by the admittance to that. Why on earth would he do such a thing? Did he think he needed her to do this for her? She’s a little irritated at the assumption. That maybe he had told their professor she was throwing a fit about him being the head of the newsletter. It had been fine, she told him. She had made her peace with it. Even if she thinks it was a stupid decision. Still, she could work through it. 

Didn’t he have the faith in her to accept it? When things weren’t going to go the way she thought it would.  

“Vouch for me?” 

Yamagishi nods. “He thinks you’re doing great work.” 

Is that really what he said? Or is he just covering for him? “Where did he go?” 

Professor Yamagishi peers at her. He doesn’t say anything else. So, Momo goes to find him. 

Momo corners him outside of the building. “What did you say?”

Ken moves away from her, walking down the corridor. Momo watches him ignore her, in the most brusque way possible. She shakes her head, following right after him. “Hey, I’m talking to you, egghead!” 

He turns around, his eyes completely shadowed by the light. “You’re being irrational. I want to be left alone.” 

Momo swallows, crossing her arms. “I just want to know what happened.” 

“You don’t have to know anything. It’s not your business.” 

Momo glares at him, and when he looks at her with his eyes he’s also scowling in return. She huffs. “Fine. Don’t tell me anything, but you have to know I can’t stand when you recede like a turtle back into its shell.”

Ken makes a contemptuous face. “You’re not making any sense.” 

Momo jabs a finger against his chest. She’s going to even with him, although she knows he doesn’t want to hear it. “You’re a coward.”

His usual slouched figure seems to pull him upward, his chin tilting. “Say that again.”

“I mean it, you’re a coward. You want me to stay, but now you’re trying to back out aren’t you?” 

His eyes flash and then he’s back to slouching. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not backing out.” 

“Then what are you doing?” 

The silence between them is palpable. It seems to smother over them and Ken just sighs. “Forget it.” 

“How can you say that?” She questions, her voice is sharp. A little hurt. Her pride’s wounded, sure. Something about him shutting down grinds her gears. 

“You just can’t stand working with me, can you?” 

Ken’s nostrils flare. “That’s not what this is.” 

Momo blinks too many times. “Then what is it?” 

“I went there to put in a good word for you,” he admits. He shakes his head. 

“For what, exactly?” Momo’s still confused. What is this? Why would he do that? 

Ken looks down at his feet. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Momo watches his back and he disappears after some time. 

Ken had to take his time today. After everything that happened with Momo the other day, he needed to get his head screwed on correctly. It didn’t take much of a genius to know he was pining. It’s ridiculous in the way that he should know better. Those feelings won’t amount to anything other than a distraction. He did this out of admiration, nothing more and nothing less. 

He likes to tell himself that. Ken knows better than to let his mind wander on the possibilities. It’s something he would rather take to the grave than even begin to bring up in conversation. He’s had a few slip-ups, he doesn’t need Momo to know how much of a weakling he is. When she had called him a coward before, she had been right. He’s meaning to keep it that way. 

The only problem is, when he arrives at the library to goes to his usual spot. Momo is already there, and someone is next to her. A boy. 

He frowns, his height stretching. He looks at them from afar. She seemed to be laughing at something the other guy was saying, he looked like maybe he was a senior. Perhaps one of those taking a final credit in literature to finish up his degree. 

Ken can only witness their interactions helplessly. This feeling bubbling forth feels awful, it’s new and it’s raw. The sensation is similar to a gaping wound in his chest. Momo laughs then, and the guy next to her grins, his boyish charm seeming to enjoy pulling that expression from her. 

How ridiculous, he thinks. It’s probably something inconsequential. All nonsense. 

Momo looks up then, she spots him there, and Ken feels his heart jump to his throat. 

She makes a face, she’s probably still upset he didn’t give her the proper response she wanted. Fine. 

That’s fine, he can just go somewhere else. He pushes up his glasses, turning on his heel to leave. 

The ache in his chest still lingers when he’s a good distance away. He feels sick. It just wasn’t fair. 

How can she still have this hold over him when he’s already gone? His heart pounds and his stomach lurches. He’d just dive into his research, the next issue awaiting. 

“Hey!” She calls out to him, he can hear her jogging behind him and he turns. 

He doesn’t want to show her he’s feeling jealous. He thinks of her laugh, her smile. The way her eyes sparkle when she writes something new, or the fresh ideas that come to mind when they’re in the middle of planning a new release. 

He has to completely drown those thoughts away. She can’t know any of this, he reminds himself. He compartmentalizes as much as he can. 

“Yeah?” He asks, adjusting his glasses. 

Momo reaches forward, swatting his hand away from the lenses. He draws his own back as if burned. 

“Stop that,” she tells him. “That’s why your glasses are getting loose.” 

“It’s not. I just need to buy new ones,” he responds. His fingers tingled, even though it had been a quick brush of her own against his. They still seem to yearn to wrap around her own. 

“Why’d you leave the library?” 

“I didn’t.” 

Momo glares at him, her eyebrows furrowing. The snarky part of him wants to tell her if she keeps doing that her face will get stuck like that. The more irrational side of him wants to take his thumb and smooth out the lines. He swallows, silencing his thoughts. 

“Just stop being contrarian, what did you want?” She grills him, her arms crossing in a defensive stance. 

“I’m not being contrarian, I’m just conformist.” 

“You’re not,” she jabs. “You leave when you see me. That’s not conforming to anything, that’s just fleeing.” 

He shakes his head. “Look, we have to work together because I asked for this. Let’s just continue what we’re doing. It’s been great.” 

Momo disagrees. “You’re not making any sense, Okarun.” 

“I am, you’re overthinking.” 

She throws her hands up. “You are impossible. One second you’re giving me sympathy, you’re doing all of this to keep me in your circle. Then, when it seems like there’s some kind of development you push me away.” 

“I’m not pushing you away, I’m giving you space.” 

Momo flushes. “Space from what? Your feelings?” 

“I’m not feeling anything,” he argues, his heart pounding in his ears. Stupid, stupid, just stop talking! 

“What?” Her expression makes him ache. How is he ruining this before they can even start? 

“I said what I said.” 

Momo nods then beginning to turn away. He can finally breathe, but then she stops. His stomach jumps down to his ass this time. Oh fuck. 

She marches towards him, her face determined. “Come with me,” she says. 

“What?” He asks dumbly. This is bad. 

“I said, come with me,” she grabs him by the arm. He fumbles forward, her strength unlike anything he’s ever encountered. Which is not much, really. He’s all clumsy limbs, and it’s embarrassing. 

He doesn’t pull away, though. He follows her even though he wants to fight it. 

When they arrive at the small diner, they take a booth at the back. 

Sitting across from the object of his frustrations and his biggest inspiration had to go down as one of the weirdest moments for Takakura Ken. He didn’t know what else to do. 

Momo stares directly at her plate. He thinks, is she trying to comfort me? She had forced him. She held him at gunpoint with that irrefutable glare. That look had been one that doomed him long ago. 

“So, about the newsletter?” She starts, and she glances away, refusing to meet his eyes. 

Ken leans back, letting himself be as far from her as he can manage. It’s not every day she gets to manifest in front of you, his mind supplies. Mostly, she’s always some figment of his imagination. Those thoughts had become far from him, seeming to mock him. It’s all the visions he would have if things went differently. If he didn’t garner himself at the forefront of her ire.

Well, they’re even. 

He supposes. 

Momo looks at him then, and it makes the gooseflesh climb up his arms. “What did you think of it?” She asks finally. 

“It’s alright,” he responds. It’s a ghost on his lips. A soft rejection. He wasn’t happy about it. It took everything in him not to let himself pour out the accolades. Her words, her syntax. Her enthusiasm for the paranormal is like a forest fire. He had none of that, and he felt envious. Her light only seems to brighten, while his remains as an echo. Similar to droplets as their rings expand and then drift into nothing. He is nothing, the voice whispers. It coils around his head like a serpent. The way it's tongue would flick against his cheek. He feels ill. 

Momo pins him with a glare. “That’s all you have to say about it?” 

Ken feels sick. He needs to leave. This isn’t getting him to where he wants to be. Not with her. He wants to. How hard could it be to say? I like you. I want to be like you. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“You’re full of shit,” Momo says, leaning in. “You’re up your ass, tell me how you really feel instead of running away.” 

“I’m not running away,” he argues. “I’m just tired.” 

“Pathetic ass excuse, we’re all tired, Okarun.” 

He huffs, blowing air out of his mouth. “I think it could be done better, your article I mean.” 

“In what way?” she prods. She looks at him expectantly, taking a bite from her meal. 

Ken has to distract himself. “Well, for starters, you can’t just say “I” all of the time.” 

Momo raises a brow. “Even if it’s meant to be in first person?” 

“No one likes first-person,” he states. Momo gapes. 

“That’s a stylistic choice and opinion, you know!” She asserts. 

She throws a french fry at him and he shifts over in the booth. “I mean, you could rewrite it sounding more like an article. A proper one.” 

She shakes her head. “This is for fun, Mr. Tight-Ass, need I remind you this is a hobby.” 

“Articles are written in the third-person,” he stands firm. He pushes up his glasses, and Momo’s scowling at him. He can handle anger. This is what he’s meant for. Anytime she looks like she’s unfurling her emotions like a flower it’s like he’s treading foreign waters. It’s unknown terrain. If he gets her distracted enough to redirect her energy to irritability he can deal with it. He can handle this.

She deflates though. “Maybe you’re right, I should take the advice, huh?” 

What? She’s giving up? Ken nearly has whiplash. “I mean, if you want,” he adds lamely. God, this sucks. Where’s her fire? He can handle the combativeness. Not whatever this is. 

She smiles then, a soft thing that he could hold in the palm of his hand. He sweats. 

“Do you have anything else you want to say about the article?” she asks, she looks hopeful. He’s not used to this. He feels his heart hammering away and he nearly has to walk away just so he can pace in peace. 

“Change the point of view,” he decides and Momo chunks another piece of food. 

She grumbles about him being a douche, and he can only smile to himself.

This he can deal with. 

When they leave the diner, Momo speaks up. “So, what now?” 

“I don’t know, we head back to campus like usual,” he suggests. Momo turns to look at him. 

“You know, I hope with the next few articles with the changes, you can give me actual solid advice.” 

Ken raises an eyebrow. “I have been, you’re too stubborn to even fix anything.” 

“I’m fixing it now!” She insists. 

He shakes his head, and his heart nearly falls out of his chest when she hears her laugh. What the hell? 

“You know, you’re a stickler for the rules, and I thought I hated it, but I guess I don’t.” 

Ken feels the heat creeping up his neck. Well, she should. She needs to continue to hate him because if she were to get close. He fears his heart won’t survive. Ken’s hot and cold, he knows this. He wanted to be close, now he is. Now, he’s too afraid to do anything else but make her mad. 

When did all of this take a turn for him? 

He can’t respond to her. Not really. If he shatters the moment he’s going to be kicking himself into next week. Maybe, he’ll hurl himself off a moving train this time. 

“Okarun?” she says his name, and it’s so gentle. It makes his stomach twist. 

“Yeah?” He says, his voice quiet, a little wobbly. 

Momo bites her lip, then she doesn’t say anything else. What’s worse? The silence or words left unsaid? He can’t leave it like this. 

“You can tell me,” he whispers. They can just share a secret, maybe if they separate themselves from their bodies, and pretend they're sharing some kind of code. It can be different. It can change the rules for them. He thinks of chess, the Sicilian Defence, she’s laid out her first move. He can imagine the board in his mind. All that’s left is to line them up, and– 

“I want to change,” she admits. “I think you’ve been trying to give me signs to do better, haven’t you?” 

There it is, the quick attack that he’s fallen victim to. 

He freezes, the chess board obliterated to pieces. His king’s still there (his heart is). The rest scattered about. This isn’t a chess move or even an alien theory he can combat. It’s real-life emotions coming into play. 

He has to think, and fast. 

“I–” he can’t form the words. How much is too much? I’ve always wanted to know about you, Ayase-san is what he wants to say. So badly. He wants to peel her apart and live inside her mind.

He wants to exist in the same realm of possibilities. His heart aches, and yet – he can’t bring himself to say it. 

She looks up at him, expecting some kind of response. The silence draws over them and Ken just mumbles. “You want to go home, right?” 

Her eyes drop to her shoes. “You’re receding again,” she points out. 

“I’m not,” it’s a weak excuse. A lame-ass defense; and she’s right. It’s not black and white. It’s just two people. Two similar people trying to navigate their way through university and their niche interests. 

Ken shakes his head. “We can talk about it later?” he proposes. Momo nods mechanically, and he hopes this makes her forget. 

It doesn’t.

He won’t forget, and she won’t either. 

Ken meets her at the computer lab, and he sees her already working on compiling the next issue of their combination newsletter. 

“Early bird gets the worm,” he comments, and Momo gives him the silent treatment. It’s deserved, he expected it even. What he doesn’t take into account is the way her face looks. She’s exhausted, eyes tired and mouth drawn to a firm line. 

He couldn’t have been the cause of that? Surely not. 

Momo just continues to work in an irritated silence. Is he missing something? He doesn’t remember what he did. It could’ve been leaving things half-full. He’d always been more of a pessimist. 

He curses inwardly. “Hey, are we good?” He’s starting to talk like her. 

Momo looks up at him. “We’re fine.” 

He doesn’t take that response well at all. He sighs. “Okay.” 

When he sits next to her they continue working in that irritable silence. It makes him feel like there are needles in the air; as if he’s being prodded by them. He doesn’t want to be the first to bring up the elephant in the room. All of her questions she’d asked and the way Yamagishi had put him forward to lead everything they were doing. 

He knows how she reacted. He felt at fault for all of it, when he didn’t realize it would happen this way. Just his luck, truly. 

Ken knows that he has to be more direct, but instead, he recedes, just like she had mentioned he does. It’s been better to let himself drift in and out of people’s lives. For many reasons, he can’t let himself think about all of the ways he’s failed her. Even himself. 

So they continue like this. Not saying anything at all. It’s better this way, he supposes. 

It’s not.

The Yakiniku place down the university parkway was packed. Momo’s literature class all decided to celebrate. It had been after they had all taken their tests for a huge mid-term, without knowing the full extent of their grades. 

Momo had felt like maybe it was a bit of a bad omen to do this. 

She had arrived a little later than others, Ken was already seated at the table. When he looks at her he stares for a little longer than he usually does. Momo sends him a question internally: what is it? 

His face twists in response. It’s almost like he’s saying: didn’t think you’d come?

She'd ask about it later, hoping to figure out more from him. He still owes her explanations. Even if he doesn’t quite know that. 

The laughter was overwhelming. Momo can only look down at her plate. The conversation took a turn about parentage. She tunes them out because who gives a fuck if your grandpa went here in the eighties. 

It’s a circle jerk of private school assholes entitled to a degree because they have generational wealth. What’s that even like? Momo only thinks of her grandma. How sometimes the last of their funds would be towards a meal or even some kind of celebration to welcome others she’s helped. They wouldn’t understand that level of gratitude. 

“Yeah, with Ayase, she’s always so crude,” one girl says. It’s a teasing lilt, but Momo can recognize the othering. The clear class difference. She didn’t know how the conversation had become directed at her. 

Momo gives a forced smile. “Not always,” she responds. 

The girl only laughs, what was her name? Rika, maybe. 

Rika grins like a cat who caught a canary. “It’s no wonder, you are from the country, aren’t you?” 

There are a few oos and chortles from the table. Ken looks down, knowing she’s been kicked to the floor. He can’t say anything. He wants to. His fists clench underneath him. 

Rika continues. “It’s probably why Takakura-kun is so harsh on you, Ayase-san.” 

The other friend jumps in, Hiro, probably. “Yeah, it’s the country grammar, ain’t it?” He laughs, his tone mocking, mouth full of food and Momo can only think about smashing his face in.

She gives them a tight smile, trying to play along. Her body feels warm all over, and she knows it’s not from the Sapporo. 

“What does your family do, anyway?” Rika prods. Her sharp eyes follow the movement of Momo’s body language. Momo’s encountered many girls like her. Ones who can’t help but sniff out weakness like a shark looking for blood.

“My grandmother,” Momo starts. “is a spirit medium.” 

There’s a heavy silence that hangs at the table, the commotion around them seeming to freeze. Ken looks at her then, and Momo can only give him a quiet glance before flicking her eyes away. His heart pangs, and he knows. He knows exactly what their group is trying to do. 

Rika’s smile curls evilly. Momo feels sick. The girl drives her shiv forward. “Interesting,” she says, a laugh bubbling forth and the rest of the group follow along. The group’s snickering and hands covering their mouths to disguise their cackling to be polite, when it isn’t. It never had been about politeness since the beginning. Momo knows exactly what they think of her. Country girl filling her shoes into something too big. Country girl, not fitting into the city life. The country girl is uneducated. Uneducated. The word echoes in her mind, and she feels herself tremble with anger. 

Right when Ken considers moving, Momo gets up from her seat.

“Leaving so soon, Ayase-san?” Rika questions, fake sympathy dripping from her mouth. 

Momo does what she knows best. She retaliates. 

She picks her drink up and pours it all over the bitch. 

Rika screams, and the others gather around her all exasperated and throwing glances at Momo. 

“Thank you, Rika. For revealing to me your superiority and all of you,” Momo directs her eyes around the table, finally landing on Ken’s. 

“For showing me what you all think of me.” 

Momo throws her yen down and then pulls out an extra hundred. “Oh, and if you think I didn’t have enough, here’s more.” 

She gives them a tight smile and leaves in a rush. 

Momo doesn’t hear Ken behind her, but she goes down a few blocks and throws up in the alley. The horrible taste of bile and alcohol burned her throat. 

Ken keeps his distance, approaching delicately like she’s an injured stray. At any point, she could bare her teeth. 

“Happy,” she croaks out. Her voice is weak, with no bite in the words. “You get to see me humiliated for once.” 

Ken doesn’t say anything, his hands shaking. 

“I busted my ass to get here,” she says. She wipes her mouth. She feels the sting of tears and another wave of nausea. “I busted my ass doing those stupid entrance exams, just to prove something. That I could be here.” 

Momo stands up taller, her hands running through her bangs. “I stayed up so late and applied to every university in the Tokyo area. I even wheedled my way into scholarships and before I knew it. They accepted me. Here. At my dream school. Every day though, it seems like people love to remind me I don’t belong.” 

The admission hangs heavy, similar to an evening fog. It’s dark and weighted. 

Ken steps forward, speaking before he can stop himself. “Those people in there, they're assholes.” 

Momo’s surprised, she didn’t think she’d ever heard him say anything wrong about anyone. Not even about her. Even when he’s at his most frustrated. 

“They don’t know you,” he tells her. 

Momo lets out a breathless laugh, with no real humor behind it. “And you think you do?” 

Ken freezes, his mouth opening and closing. His hand extends, but then he drops it to his side. He can’t look at her. He tries to though. Finally, he looks at her. His eyes locked on hers. “I want to,” he admits quietly. “I want to know you.” 

Momo stares at him in disbelief. She searches his gaze for any sign of a layered joke. He’s being serious. The same Takakura Ken looks exactly like this when he’s defending his argument on UAPs or whether the surgeon’s photograph is real. Which, he pointedly says, it is. 

It’s real. 

Momo feels the steady thump of her heart, and she doesn’t know why. She moves before she can think. She’s probably still a little tipsy and still smells like sad Yakiniku beef and vomit. She wraps her arms around him. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “That means the world to me.” 

Ken is stiff as a board. He doesn’t loosen up, his arms hovering over her. She can hear his heart picking up in speed. She stays like this for a moment. Neither of them moved. 

Momo makes a hacking noise and draws back. “Ugh, god, sorry.” 

She turns to spit, the bile still tickling her throat. 

Ken is still stuck in slow motion. It’s crazy how he finally seemed to regain some of his composure, his mind doing somersaults in the process. He’s catching up with everything that just happened. Everything he just said. There’s no way he can take that back now. She heard it, loud and clear. 

“So,” she fills the silence. “Now what?” 

Ken gulps. “We can go back–” 

“No fucking way, not to the sharks.” 

“Let me finish,” he interjects. “Or, we can just go somewhere else.” 

Did he drink something? He scolds himself. He didn’t, but he’s acting like he did. He’s going to wake up tomorrow and punch himself in the face at this rate. How did he get this far? He didn’t think he could. Ken thinks he should probably be more honest when it's necessary. 

Momo wraps her arms around herself, she can see the face-journey he’s going through. He’s as transparent as a book. It makes her laugh. “Your face is going to get stuck like that,” she warns him. 

“It won’t!” He shoots back, but then he exhales a breath. “Come on, I think you’re probably over it.” 

Momo gapes. “I’m not over it, those bastards ripped up my dignity.” 

“Your dignity is still intact,” he reminds her. “They don’t have a filter.” 

“I mean I don’t either,” she confesses. 

Ken can’t argue with her there. 

He can only start walking, hoping Momo will follow and weirdly enough, she does. 

Ken walks slowly, letting Momo reach him, and he’s still feeling uncertain. All of this has happened. From beginning, middle to end, he doesn’t know exactly what made him so drawn to her. 

Maybe, if he had tried to be a little more gentle, it could have been different. At least for the two of them. 

“What did you mean?” She asks finally.

Ken’s footing stops, and it ceases all movement. He’s as wound up as a tightened string, stretched too far and too thin. “About what?” His voice is rough like he hasn’t used it in years. 

“When you said you what you said? About wanting to know me?” 

He can’t look at her. He’s rooted to the spot. How did he let his own emotions take over? He has to be honest now. He can’t run anymore. 

“I did,” his admission hangs. It swings like a pendulum, he passes it to her and he waits. 

Momo nods, taking the words and keeping them close. “Okay,” she says. 

“Okay?” 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I just wanted to be certain.” 

Ken feels desperate then, his explanation at the tip of his tongue. It’s like some invisible wall stops him from telling her anything else. It’s a mental block he has to figure out on his own. 

He knows that. He recognizes it, and it’s hope. 

A hope that he can finally have someone close without seeing it as a temporary companionship. 

He purses his lips in thought. “We–” he pauses, and Momo stares at him. Her eyes blinked, awaiting the fated response. Why’s this all on him? She’s been reaching out, he just keeps slapping her hand away when the going gets–well going.

“We don’t have to talk about it, at least for right now.” 

Momo nods. “Is that a promise?” 

Ken snorts, playing with his hands. “Something like that.” 

The following weeks pass by in a blur, their newsletter gaining some sort of a cult following in the last week. 

One person had even come up to Momo after class, chatting her ear off about some random anomaly he found while hiking in Hokkaido. 

The guy’s name, Shin (probably), is begging to be interviewed for the oddity portion of the next edition. 

“Sure, let me just talk with Okarun about it,” Momo says. She’s being a team player, it’s come easily now. Since whatever has been going on between them seems to be something more. Or it’s all in Momo’s head. She can’t help but rely on him. For what it’s worth, she’s hoping it could be something a lot more than just newsletters and arguments about font styles. 

“Uh, whose Okarun?” Shin asks, clearly confused. 

Momo feels the heat creep up on her neck. “The guy who does the alien talk.” 

Shin nods. “Oh, right! Can you tell him my friend Gin saw some kind of green dude in Okinawa!” 

Momo sighs. “Sure, sure, what’s your email?” She takes the information in stride. When she leaves her class she almost runs right into Okarun’s chest. 

“Oh shit–hey, I was about to go find you!” She tells him, beaming. 

Ken looks at her, the warmth spreading from the tips of his toes to his fingertips. Ugh. 

“Hey,” he gives her a tight smile. Momo can only look at him in confusion. 

“What? Why do you look like that?” 

Ken gathers her to follow him, and Momo does. When they walk down the steps from the building, he stops. “We may have to postpone this issue for at least a week.” 

“What?! Why?” Momo has to reel it back. She can’t get angry, not yet anyway. She can’t jump to conclusions. He better not be asking to leave their collaboration. 

She had done that before, but he didn’t allow her to just let go. So, she’s going to match that energy. 

He holds his hands up. “It’s nothing serious, I mean, it kind of is. I have to go meet with my parents this weekend.” 

“Oh shit, for what?” 

Ken stares at her. He knows there’s an after like he has to tell her why he’s going to see them. That’s what normal people do, it’s a conversation. A very normal question to ask. Instead, he locks up like an industrial freezer. 

“Stuff, about school,” he mutters. 

Momo leans closer. “Huh? What was that?” 

“It’s about school!” He answers back, much louder. 

Momo squints at him. “Why does it feel like you’re lying?” 

“I’m not, can’t you just take my word for it.” 

She blinks and nods slowly. “Right, okay. Well, did you just want me to publish it without you? If you have your portion done, can I just set it up and then submit it for this Friday?” 

Ken swallows. “I hadn’t started my part yet.” 

“That’s unlike you, Okarun, are you sure you’re good?” She furrows her brows in the same way he’s seen her do when she’s concerned. When she’s worried about what graphic she wants to make for the page spread. 

His mouth runs dry. “It’s fine, I can email you.” 

“Are you like some geezer from 1958? I can text you?” 

He knows that’s normal. Texting is normal. He can just send her emojis when he doesn’t feel like talking, she’ll get the hint. “Sure,” he replies, a bit too drawn out. 

Momo doesn’t know why, but she can sense an integral shift in him. He clams up whenever anything gets even remotely close to talking about personal matters. She’d seen him do it before. How he handled her last debacle of her throwing up in an alley, he seemed unsure of himself. Even though, at that moment he seemed as confident as he could be. Only rarely. 

She holds out her hand, exchanging phones with him to put her information in.

When they finally return the items, Ken doesn’t say anything. 

“Well, I’ll see you, not tomorrow.” 

Momo snorts. “Sure, sure. Not tomorrow, but like the next.” 

Ken gives her a tight smile. “The next.” 

Ken doesn’t know what to do. He’s changed his attire twice now. His mother had sent him a simple, to-the-point message: 

Ukai-tei Roppongi, Minato City, 7:00pm. 

Ken had stared at the message for some time, feeling an insurmountable amount of anxiety. It made a hole in his chest, like a dark space punched inwards into a vast sea of words. (Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.)

He knew his father would be there too. He has his eyes, he knows. He has his mother’s mouth, the way it twists into itself when he’s being disagreeable about something. Their reflection of his two wholes always split in half. He’s not sure if he wants to go today. He’d rather be back in the computer lab, where Momo is. Where he can just work in silence on his page spread. He thinks of Momo and her smile, of her facing all the impossibilities of her life to get where she is. He’s the same. Ken feels like he looks into a mirror when he sees the passion displayed in Momo’s eyes. How she channels that energy in everything she does. It makes his heart hum, his hands twitch, he begins rubbing the pads of his fingers together imagining a warmth where she is. 

He doesn’t respond to the message, and he goes later that evening. He settles on something simple for the night. His dark slacks, a nice button-up his father sent him, and a tie his mother gave him on his graduation day from high school. He doesn’t brush his hair, and he pulls his jacket over his shoulders heading out to the train. 

It’s a dawning silence, and the sun sets. People beside him, and he can’t stop his thoughts. When moments get rough he thinks of a line from Momo’s writing. A passage he thinks about, he remembers he can open his school email on his phone and reread her pages. He can dive into her words and make a home for himself there. It’s safer in the lines than here. 

“Hello, Ken,” his father greets. A rather shorter man, with a stocky figure. His square-rimmed glasses, his stubble on his chin. Ken has to resist the urge to make a face. He hates how he sounds like him sometimes. A man too far away from his family who stations himself in isolation across the sea. He could never catch up to him.  

“Father,” Ken bows. The older man doesn’t hug him. He pretends he doesn’t notice. Ken tries hard not to think of what that means. 

His mother is already there, with her shorter hair, and glasses. She’s a taller woman, her curls always refined. She raises a single brow, her mouth in a tight line. Ken makes the same expression. He can feel it already on his face. 

“Hey, Mom,” he says softly. 

She looks at him, standoffish. “Hello, ‘Ken’.” She doesn’t hug him either. 

“Well, let’s sit then,” his father says. They pull out their chairs and they get comfortable, already placing their orders for a meal. 

The silence at the table is not uncomfortable, he’s used to these. It’s been once a year, they would gather somewhere nice, he’s sure his mother loves to flex her wealth in some capacity. Especially to brag about it in front of his father. She’s ambitious, tied to the money. His father was a researcher who had dove into the archives of the ocean. They had two loves, and neither of them made room for Ken. 

 They had gotten divorced when Ken was five years old. He remembers how they sat him down, just like this. It was similar to a business meeting, a fancy restaurant, and their expressions were the same. 

(You were never our son. We were never your parents). 

He swallows it down, those haunting words. They weren’t what they said, but he knows it’s what they were thinking. What they must’ve felt about him. Almost as if they wanted to say it out loud. 

“Are you up to date on your studies, Ken?” his mother asks. She eats delicately, small portions to the side. 

He nods mutely. “Yes, I am.” 

His mother looks at him then. “Will you be looking into those programs for your Master’s yet?” 

No, he wants to say. I’m not. He didn’t want to major in Economics. He’s good at it, yes. It doesn’t mean he wants to do that. 

“Yes,” he lies. 

“Good,” she tells him, curt and to the point. He knows she’s lying too. She doesn’t care. 

Ken’s father doesn’t say anything. “I saw Andromeda the other day,” he says. They ignore him. Ken can’t talk to his father in the way he wants.

“Cool,” is all Ken says. That's all he can say. The dinner passes by in silence, awkward chimes of porcelain against silver. He thinks of Momo who feels a whole country away working on their newsletter. 

His fingers itch to write. 

The heart within him gives a painful thud. 

When it’s time for them to pay the bill his father speaks. “We have something for you, Ken,” he says. He looks between the two, uncertain of what they mean. Sometimes, he thinks they rehearse everything before meeting him. It’s all mechanical, cold, and precise.

(It’s what I had been raised to be, the thought comes.) 

He listens attentively. 

“We can help you get an apartment in Tokyo if you continue your studies,” his father says. He gives him a tight smile. His mother is quiet and distant. Always gone. 

“Ah, thank you,” Ken says kindly. He doesn’t know if he appreciates the gesture. He knows it comes with a price. 

“Economics,” his mother begins. “It will be a part of your studies.” Is it a question, or more of a demand? He’s uncertain. He’s never felt like her son. She’s never felt like his mother. She’s a silhouette, in a way like a dark shadow that encases him in his sleep; when he closes his eyes. She’s there, always. He is reminded of Momo again. His mind wanders away and away. He misses her, he realizes. Why did he think of doing this? 

He can disconnect from them. He’s saved plenty. They’ve never actually given him a reason to use their money at least. Not enough to keep it.

He doesn’t know how to breach the topic just yet. “Sure,” he responds, it wavers. His mother’s eyes sharpen, and it's a weakness he displays. She’s iron. She’s a woman forged from the coals of a blacksmith's furnace. 

“Very well.” 

She doesn’t sound even remotely very. His father’s smile is terse, pulled inwards. It’s not quite a grin. It’s a grimace. His hand comes to his shoulder and gives a squeeze. 

“Good job, my boy.” 

They both leave him there. 

He doesn’t want to think that they never even hugged him goodbye. 

Ken leaves in the night before he can think he’s dialing Momo’s number. 

He wants to hear her voice, the thought is rampant. Momo, Momo, Momo. Her name is a song on his lips. If he calls her that, how would she look? 

She answers on the third ring. 

“Hello?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, and he can hear Momo shuffling in the background. “Okarun?” Her voice comes again. She sounds confused, and he laughs. A genuine one bubbling from his mouth. Ken’s heart thumps wildly, finally. 

God, finally. 

“Sorry,” he says, before adjusting the phone to the other side of his ear. “How’s the progress going?” 

Momo goes silent and then she says it. “Hah? Did you drink or something?” 

Ken shakes his head as if she could see it. “No.” 

Momo huffs. “Well, whatever. What are you, my boss? I am working on it, you know. You owe me your section anyway.” 

“I know,” comes his reply. 

“Okarun,” her voice is gentle. 

He swallows, eyelashes fluttering. “Yeah?” 

“What was so funny earlier?” 

(You.)

He snorts. “That’s your concern?”

Momo groans. “It’s a question, just answer it.” 

“I remembered something,” he says, covering his wavering. 

“And?” She prods. 

“You misspelled something in your third paragraph in that Paranormal story time you wrote.” 

“Oh, you’re such an ass,” she grouses. If she could smack him she would. He’s too far though. 

“I’m coming back tonight,” he says. He wants to ask if she would be willing to meet up. Perhaps at the school library while it’s still open to write together. It’d be a comfortable silence like they always do. 

“Okay?” It’s a question, she wants to know why she should care. 

(She does care.) 

He hesitates. Just say it, damn it. “Want to meet at the Library?” 

Momo goes silent again. Weird, she’s always mouthy. He’s hoping she feels just like he does. The same way he’s pining for something he doesn’t want to put a name to. That sort of faulty in-between that could shatter at any moment. It’s glass within the walls of what they’ve built around themselves. He’s no longer iron, forged from the same hands as his mother. He wants to be pliant, malleable against her advances. He wants to walk in the same path she does. If she willed it, he would follow. 

“It’s almost nine, Okarun. It’s too late.” 

His heart thuds, and he feels himself grow cold. Too late, the words circle in his brain. 

“But–” and hope comes springing forward. It’s a valley of summer flowers bursting forth with color. It’s a dangerous feeling, the word hope is. It engulfs him in a scent of spring and warmth, it’s radiant. He wants to be there forever. 

“Did you want to come to meet me somewhere? Maybe we can work in the student lounge?” She suggests. 

His heart echoes his thoughts easily. “I’ll be there in thirty.” 

When he hangs up he rushes down the way to the station. He’s never run so fast in his life, and he feels giddy with all of the emotions. All of the terrible interactions with his parents are far from his mind. 

He gets to see Momo and write. 

One of them is his true love, and he’s not sure what to name the other thing that remains in his mind. 

He won’t put it into words, just yet. 

Momo looks at him, his hair is wind-blown and his cheeks are red. He breathes out a simple greeting, glasses completely fogged.

“Did you run here?” Is she worried about him, concerned? He hopes so. 

He shrugs, waving away the thoughts. “A little.” 

She nods, a little disconcerting. She’s in casual gear. He’s never seen her wear pants. He tries to ignore the way he always seems to know things about her. Instinctively, he can’t help it. His eyes follow her wherever she goes. 

“Well, anyways, you can come inside. Did you bring your stuff?” 

He nods, his hands sweaty. They were too sticky against his skin when he pressed them together. Momo ignores whatever internal struggle he’s facing. Good, she doesn’t need to know. 

When he follows her inside, they sit somewhere by the window. The night drags on, and he checks his watch. It’s way past their time to be out. They should get some sleep. This place stays open, and they have their badges to swipe in and out. 

So, if anything they can call it quits whenever. 

“Stop worrying, I can feel you oozing nerves,” Momo demands. She throws him a weird look. She’s perturbed because why did he want to come here? He said he was supposed to be gone the entire weekend with family. Did he just want to come back? “You didn’t have to do this if you had other priorities.” 

Ken’s fingers dance across his laptop. The things he wishes he could say and the things that he doesn’t want to say. It’s an amalgamation of shit. It makes no sense. Whatever. 

“We had to work on this, for the newsletter.” 

Momo curls into herself on the chair. Her legs were tucked underneath, her bangs brushing against her cheeks. 

“Is that really why you came back?” It’s a loaded question. He licks his lips, his hands moving, tangling in between the webbing of his skin. He could pull the hangnails until they were bloody. He’d done it since he was a kid. When things got too overwhelming. 

It’s just Momo, his mind whispers. She doesn’t bite. Only a tad if she feels threatened. She’s not iron and steel, she’s gentle like the paper bound in old books. They’re frayed, torn at the edges, but they always make a home for him there. 

She waits for him to open up his laptop, to actually start working. She wants to know what he has to say. So she waits for him to catch up. 

“No.” It’s soft under his breath. Momo perks up, the shock clear as day on her face. 

She pretends she doesn’t hear it though, he knows this. 

Momo shifts around, leaning over to open her laptop to begin pulling up her programs to begin editing. 

“It’s fine, we don’t have to talk about it,” she offers. He wants to. Ken only ever wanted to tell her. The dinner with his family became too much, and he wanted to find her here in the same vicinity. Where his mother’s demanding eyes never had to watch him. Where his father’s eyes never had to give him an expression of sympathy. He knows they’re not sorry. The apologies would form in their mouth, taking shape with their voices. Ken understood very well that they never meant what they had to say. 

He doesn’t mean what he says either, or really–he hopes she knows it’s hard for him. It’s difficult, its barbed wire around his throat, and lead against his tongue. It’s coated in ink that pours out in black dregs. It’s clunky, gritty like sand. 

“I don’t mean to drag you out so late,” he finally manages. He’s still sitting upright, computer in his lap. Momo shakes her head. 

“Dude, it’s fine, let’s just get to work.” 

I’m sorry, he wishes he could say. He doesn’t let it take root. 

They continue like this for an hour, just working amongst each other. Momo finally moves around, sitting on the floor to get closer to the table. “My back hurts,” she whines. She seems to slouch more at this angle. She’s completely overtaken with whatever she’s working on. 

He hasn’t spoken in some time, he wonders if he can now. He got what he wanted. 

“So, this one woman emailed me about some haunted sphere in an apartment complex,” she says. She glances at him. 

He’s focused on whatever he’s doing, the reflection of his glasses picking up the light of a document page he’s writing in. 

His dark eyes meet hers. Momo feels that echo of her heart. He hasn’t looked her in the eyes once, but now he is. It makes something flutter within herself. Her resolve nearly crumbles. Her cheeks burn despite herself. She doesn’t look away though. 

“And? Do you believe her?” His eyes glance back to his page, the tapping of fingers against keys. 

Momo looks back at her page, the spread is almost done. The picture of the older woman’s smile on the side. Momo thinks of her grandmother, the crinkled laugh lines whenever she breaks a grin. How it made her much softer around the edges. She misses the smell of her cigarette smoke, the incense coating the home, and the prayers she did before the shrine. The smell of pine, earth, and stone. Momo’s eyelashes flutter. 

Ken wants to run his finger against them, curious to know if they’re as soft as the rest of her. 

“Of course, I do.” 

He nods to himself, accepting the response. She looks far away, and he knows she misses her home. It’s the same way he looks. 

Except Momo has a real home. His is a makeshift shack, with horrible lies and horrible roots. It’s full of cold iron for a mother and a father far away–as distant as the ocean itself. 

“That’s good,” he says finally. “That you believe her.” 

Momo pins him with her eyes. He can’t bear to look up. He recognizes that look. 

“Did you ever have someone believe you?” 

No, comes the word on the tip of his tongue. It’s ill-fated. He won’t be able to take it back. Ken’s eyes meet hers. “Yeah, I did,” he lies. 

Momo frowns, disapproving at best. He’s been hidden away, locking himself up with bolts and nails. She takes it for an answer, no matter how badly she wants to grab a crowbar and pull each individual's falsification from him; like nails hammered into metal sheets. 

“That’s good,” she adds quietly. “I’m glad you had someone.” 

He does, he thinks. It’s you. 

Ken twists his mouth, the same way his mother does. 

The night continues onward, and they finally finish sometime around one am. He’s uncertain of how long it’s been. The two of them cocooned themselves into their world. 

They write away whatever they fancy, he gives her pointers on her sentence structure and she tells him not to use two differing colors for a spread. 

“Those neon colors don’t look right like that,” she tells him. She leaned over his device, pointing gently, but not touching the screen. “It’s so gross, change that.” 

He grumbles under his breath. “I thought you would give constructive criticism.” 

She snorts, her smile bright and cheery. Momo’s hands on her hips when she leans back. “You’re such a dweeb. I thought you had eyes for this.” 

“I’m in no way a natural.” 

Momo flushes, hand on her chest. “You think I’m a natural?” She teases. 

He shakes his head, fighting the corners of his mouth from lifting. “You’re good at this,” he finally admits. Her smile breaks and she laughs. She may be a little delirious judging by how late it is. His heart picks up in speed at the sound. 

Ken, out of spite for making him feel that way, uses the paint bucket tool to drop another horrid neon color on the font. “How about this?” 

She squints and then makes a gross noise at the back of her throat. “I said change it! Not to make it worse!” 

They continue to squabble over color themes, font sizing, and sentences. It makes them happy to be in the element where they exist. It’s easier this way, rather than to name what they feel when their hearts begin to stutter or when the heat comes crawling back in. Momo experimentally brushes her fingers against his when she makes a grab for the mouse in his hands.

She just wanted to feel how swift they were, wanting to feel her skin align with his. She wants to rub her fingers against his sharpened knuckles. 

Ken makes a sound, alert and all too surprised. “Hey, you’re too close!” 

She moves away then, and he misses her warmth. 

“Will you just let me have the mouse, you’re not doing this right,” she argues. She fights the feeling of wanting to have skin on skin. She remembers the hug when she had held him. Momo yearns for that more than anything. She wants to go back and do it again. This time where it’s right. 

Where she can slot herself in his arms and bury herself into his neck. Momo swallows, still waiting for him to give her the item. 

He glares at her, he doesn’t know what to do. He just slides it across the table and it falls to the floor. 

Momo scowls at him. “Doofus! You’ll break it.” 

“And whose fault would that be? You’re supposed to catch it.” 

She grabs it off the floor. “I’ll have to be next to you, so scoot over.” 

Ken’s stiff. The familiar rush of heat, and he shifts over to the edge of the chair. Momo sits right next to him, her clothes brushing against his own. His knees were tightly up against him. His hands were planted firmly beside him. He won’t move, he won’t move. 

“You’re so weird, why are you so nervous?” She questions, her eyes on the computer, she’s clicking through different screens, overlaying some more texture on the heading. 

Because it’s you, his brain supplies. She looks warm, and he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around her waist. He thinks back to the night she held him after the yakiniku fiasco. How he regrets not being able to return that hug. He had her so close, and just like that she slipped through his fingers. 

He wrinkles his nose. “I’m not used to it.” 

“Being close?” Her focus trained on the screen in front of her. It’s late, he’s tired. He may do something he can’t take back. Fuck it all. 

“Yeah.” 

She hums. “It’s fine, I mean, I’m not used to it either.” 

He blinks, trying to sneak glances from her side. The slope of her nose, her eyelashes, and the strands of hair against her face. She’s very pretty, he realizes. It’s in one fell swoop he notices. She is very, very pretty. 

“Ugh, your color scheme is such ass, dude.” 

That tone chases away the heat from his chest. “Shut up.” 

She smirks beside him, an expression he wishes he could get rid of; where his hands can lift and brush her face. Where he can tangle his fingers in her hair, letting his forehead brush against hers. That would make her cease her relentless teasing. He’s certain of that much. 

“I’m literally right, this lame shade of red is not it, okay.” She glances at him, and when she sees the look on his face she quiets. 

It’s an intense gaze. The student center is still open well into the night, and it’s just them.

Alone. 

Ken is still looking at her like that. She tilts her head, curious, unknowing. Maybe she already knows. She can recognize that same look within the words written in her romance stories. All of the films she’s watched, the words she’s found comfort in. She only ever had one relationship. A horrible boyfriend from high school who had been too eager to grab her ass or bite her lip when kissing. He had been too rough. She hated that she let him have parts of herself because it was all she ever wanted. She had been desperate to find a romance in all the wrong places. It left her with a distrust of them. Whatever this was brewing between Ken and her, it felt tangible. The way it seems to fall over her like gossamer and silk. It tickles her skin, goosebumps to rise, and her heart to patter. 

He moves, shifting himself where his hands can reach on the table, gripping the edge. Momo doesn’t look away, she stays still just to see what he does. It’s all too new and aware. It’s a first for either of them. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, and a beat passes. 

Ken’s voice comes close to her ear. “Goodnight,” he tells her. 

Her eyes are still closed, she’s scared to see. The rejection feels heavy in her gut. She can hear him leaving and when she opens them. 

He’s gone. 

Momo doesn’t see Ken for a week. He had emailed the final pieces of their newsletter. The words hanging in the message box. 

(It’s done). 

She tries not to think there’s an underlying meaning present. That maybe what’s done is whatever ghost of a moment happened between them. It had all been for naught. All of the hours they put into this newsletter immediately broke because of her stupidity. She had gotten swept up in ideas. Her idealism when it comes to romance is a plague, truly. She had hoped and then it had failed her. 

She tries to tamp down that horrid sensation. Why did she do that? What did she think was going to happen? It wouldn’t have been anything, she’s sure now that maybe she freaked him out. 

It had been weird for her to close her eyes anyway. She feels that surge of shame coursing through her. She’s treading unfamiliar terrain with him. She shouldn’t have pushed it. She could text him. He had opened one of her messages and never responded. 

When she texted him later that evening after going back to her dorm. She sent him a message. 

(Hey, are we good?) 

The two check marks next to the message make her stomach drop. He had read it and didn’t text anything else. 

Momo didn't sleep well that night. She feels she may have done something she won’t be able to fix. 

When Ken has dinner with his mother she meets him at a different restaurant. He had asked for this. He had wanted to tell her. 

I won’t be doing Economics. I won’t live in the dream you’ve crafted for me. 

He does his best to show resolve. Ken shows up in casual clothing. It had been a plan to show her he never actually cared about what she thought. He has been growing older. He thinks of Momo from that night. Her eyes fluttered shut, she leaned in. He had wanted to. So badly to lift his hands, to brush her neck; to kiss her forehead. 

If she had let him, would he kiss her? Maybe. The word may be harsh on his tongue. It makes him grimace.

 (You have your mother’s mouth, his mind chastises). 

“Ken,” his mother greets him at the table. 

They say nothing for a moment. She awaits for him to speak, he knows she won’t say it, but the demand is present outwardly. It’s all in body language. 

“Mom,” he says then. “How are you?” 

She stares at him, her eyes dark, unwavering. “It’s been fine, Ken.” 

The way she says his name sounds like something insignificant. You’re not my son. You never were. He knows that’s what she wants to say. He never felt like her son anyway. 

“I don’t know what fine is,” he responds. “What does that mean for you, Mom?” He says her name the same way she does for him. 

Her eyebrow raises, sharp, refined. It’s like a knife ready to stab. “It means fine, Ken.” 

“Of course, of course,” he mutters. He shakes his head. 

The silence weighs down on them more than before. Her ire grew from across the table. She won’t ask why. She never does. Finally, she rests her hands on the cloth. They’re flat against the pristine white. Their waiter goes to pour more water into their glasses. She waves the man off. 

“Why did you ask me here?” She inquires finally. 

Ken’s expression dims slightly, her eyes pin him again. 

(Weakness, you’re showing weakness.)

He scratches his neck. “I’m refusing the offer.” 

“Offer?” she echos the word. 

“I’m not going to allow you to pay for my future apartment or my studies.” 

The silence stretches, she looks at him exactly as how she did when he asked her why she was leaving dad. Why? It had been an innocent question. He had been young, a boy. A child. She looked at him as if he were an adult. She treated him similar to a business partner, a negotiation she had been trying to land. 

When the divorce settled, neither of his parents would take him. He had lived with his grandfather before his eventual passing. He remembers the man's kind eyes, his smile, and the songs he’d play on his gramophone. It had string orchestras and delightful instruments. 

A symphony within the vinyl. 

(Come, sweet boy, his grandfather would say.)

He’d grab his hands, and he’d dance with him on his feet. He’d sway him around the kitchen. Ken would cherish those days before they had been ultimately cut short. When the reality of cruelty among people had been too real. Their eyes watched him in a way where they knew he didn’t belong. 

Freak, weirdo, don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. 

His grandfather died in spring. He had been eleven. He remembers seeing the glass of the coffin, presenting the old man's peaceful face. Right before they would take his grandfather to be cremated. He had worn that smile that he’d given him as a child. One full of secrets, where he’d teach him where to hide his candy. 

(Here, Ken, hide this here.) 

At the time, he didn’t cry. He felt empty. He had kept the wrappers and toys his grandfather had given him. He had kept them away in a journal, in a scrapbook, and he’d draw tiny pictures in the spaces. His memories are plastered within the pages. His little life. It had been everything before the grief settled in his ribs. When loneliness took shape in his lungs where it had made a home in his heart. Ken would close his eyes, and he’d play the soft music from the gramophone. 

Now, he thinks, it’s something to show Momo one of these days. Would she let him dance with her while he swayed? She’d say something snarky in that voice of hers, but her smile would light up the room. He wants to weep at his imagination. How real he wishes it could be. He had left her there. Alone. 

He didn’t deserve that right. He needed to right his wrongs. Ken had to face the iron in front of him. That wretched mirror before him. 

“I have scholarships and funds elsewhere,” he tells her. He fills in the gaps where she doesn’t speak. His mother still says nothing. “I don’t need your support. I’ve met someone, and I want to be a professor. I want to connect with people. I want to teach my students the same values. I want to write scholarly journals.” 

He swallows. Ken holds her gaze even. She is still iron and steel. She hasn’t said anything. 

“I forgive you,” Ken whispers. 

His mother speaks then. “It’s a want that is a need. Is it a necessity to live like this?” 

Ken shakes, his hands trembling beside him. He’s sweating, and the room sways. “It is the life I need, Mom.” 

She twists her mouth, and he doesn’t mirror her. “Then it is a life you will get.” 

When he leaves that night, he pulls out his phone and stares at Momo’s contact. How difficult would it be just to call her? Just for him to selfishly hide beneath her voice. 

Okarun, she would say. It’d be a question hanging from her lips. A beginning. He wants to try all of it with her. She had made him a home long before he realized. 

(Hey, are we good?) 

The message is still there, checked, and read. 

He types the words out. 

(I want us to be good.) 

He hesitates on the send, his thumb not pressing the button. It’s better if he meets her halfway. For him at least, this would be better if he could see her in person. He is no longer iron, he’s not brimming with precision or a calculative air. He is gentle, and he holds her words from her writing within his heart. It’s no longer lonely, not where she is. 

It never has been. He’s no longer iron, he chants. He is torn at the edges like frayed pages, and he wants to be like her. He is just like her. 

Momo. 

Instead, he decides to call his dad. It’s late, he knows this. His father picks up. His father is far across the ocean. Tonight, he can hear him in Japan. 

“Ken?” The sound of his voice but older doesn’t startle him anymore.

“Hey, Dad.” 

The night continues moving, and Ken decides to break through. 

Momo has heard nothing from Ken. She feels distorted, she wants to cry. It’s not about leaving, she thinks. It’s about how there was no such explanation because of that. She continues burying herself in sending her emails and responding to new stories. She listens to many, and she writes to them each. 

She takes this time to be individualistic. When it’s been the second week or so of no contact, she leaves that weekend for Kamigoe City. She sends her grandmother a simple voice recording on her landline. 

“Hey, Granny, I’m headed back for the weekend.” 

When Momo packs it’s all her essentials. Ken still hasn't submitted anything to her. She tries not to think about it. She pushes it from the back of her mind and takes the train. She plugs her earphones in and avoids the contact she hadn’t erased. Instead, she finds her station and listens to her music. The road towards Kamigoe is a blur. 

When she heads inside the torii gate, her grandmother is already outside and playing shogi by herself. The cigarette wafted a familiar trail upwards to the sky. 

“Hey, I’m home.” 

Her grandmother doesn’t smile, but she can see in her eyes there’s a faint shimmer. “Get inside, I made you something.” 

Momo offers her a smile, and she heads towards the shoji. 

Seiko had laid out a feast of hotpot, plates assembled, barley tea ready. The condensation against the pitcher tells of how on time she made this. Momo feels a pang of tears, and she starts to cry. 

Seiko looks at her confused. “Well, damn, kid.” 

Her grandmother sighs, and heads to her, wrapping her in her arms. She smells just like cigarettes and pine. The fresh air from outside, and she buries herself into her shoulder. “If you missed me that much, you could’ve come home every weekend for all I care.” 

Momo laughs, wiping her eyes and pulling away. “Sorry, sorry. I just really wanted this.” 

Seiko rolls her eyes, waving her hand. “Just sit and eat, you’ve had a long school year.”

She wants so badly to tell her everything. Seiko already knows all of the work she put into her newsletters. How each article she crafted is an honor to her grandmother's wisdom and love of what she does. She had been told tales of yokai, cursed objects, and tales from different periods in Japan. How each of the histories interconnects with the way humans view spiritualism and the Shinto gods. Every year she’d take Momo to the shrine to pray; to bow before a God and to thank them for another year.

Seiko had told her. “The God of Kamigoe granted me with you.” It made Momo smile. She knows she was a sickly child, after the death of her parents, Seiko had taken her in. Tiny Momo had suffered from RSV, and Seiko had prayed. She told Momo at the age of eighteen everything she had done from the science to the spiritual to heal her. “Kamigoe’s God let me have more years with you, I reckon.” 

Momo was thankful, and greatly appreciated for her efforts. It’s why Momo has done so much to get where she is now. Why she needed to show her grandmother she could live without her for a few years. She wanted to show Seiko that she wouldn’t be some kind of dependent leech. Seiko didn’t mind it if she had stayed or gone. She knows at the end of the day, Momo is all she has left. She had always taught her about always being together, and doing right by others. 

Seiko wouldn’t have kicked her out if Momo didn’t want to. She’d always have a home back here, where the torii gate would meet her. 

“Why the tears?” Seiko asks finally after Momo lays back on her elbows. She feels full, perfectly warm, and content. She had almost forgotten about Ken. Just for a moment. Then it comes rushing back to her. 

Momo sits up, and she’s quiet. Seiko watches her with a keen eye. 

“So, you know how I had the newsletter about all of the paranormal stuff?” Momo finally says. Seiko nods in response. 

“Yeah, what happened? Did it get canceled?” 

Momo snorts. “Kind of? One of my classmates collaborated with me to keep it alive.” 

Seiko raises a brow. “Really?” 

Momo bites her lip, her cheeks burning. “I met this guy,” she mumbles. Seiko blinks, and the woman puts out her cigarette. 

“Is he just a guy?” She knows what the question means. Is he more than that? Does he make you feel more than what you are? 

Momo shakes her head. “He’s a lot more than that, I think.” She laughs, suddenly feeling too nervous. Momo pours her heart out to her grandmother, she tells her everything from the beginning. First year and onwards. How she felt like he had been trying to gun for her and her words. When in reality, he had only been trying to help the only way he knew how. Harsh criticism, but never those watchful eyes from her peers. Never about haughtiness or class. How in a lot of ways, he had been more of a kindred spirit than anything.

How similar they were, but how utterly different their views are. She found solace in his red lines and green marks, she had planted herself in those corrections and let them take root. How thrilling it was to work with someone with all of the same interests that correlate. They were parallel, intersecting when it mattered. Seiko listens to it all. Her grandmother knows what the word is but they do not want to name it. So, she doesn’t say it. She knows her granddaughter enough to understand that it’s not about the obvious, it’s about the actions taken. The direction of where she wants to be. Seiko, at that moment, understood Momo wanted to be where that guy was. Wherever his red marks would take her.

“He is more than that, huh?” Seiko responds. “Have you told him?” 

Momo shakes her head. “No.” The word is delicate, and not at all a harsh denial. 

Seiko lights another cigarette. “You should tell him if he’ll still have you that is.” 

Momo frowns, her lips drawing far south. “And if he doesn’t? If he doesn’t want anything to do with me?” 

Seiko shrugs, propping her knee up. She lets her elbow rest there, looking out towards the open shoji. The wind chimes blowing through the breeze, a tune for songbirds and themselves. “It’s something you will have to live with, whether you say it or not.” 

Momo takes those words, she opens her hands towards them, and keeps them close. “I know,” she mumbles. “It’s scary.” 

Seiko shakes her head. “What’s scarier is not telling anybody what you mean. You wanna live like that?” 

Momo curls into herself, her heart pounding. “I don’t want to, I want to be honest.” 

Seiko looks at her then, no longer talking to the outside. Her grandmother’s strong gaze has always been there. She is a foundational woman, her roots grow and grow. She had planted trees within Momo and her life. She had shown her where to let herself be situated and to extend with love as wide and huge as the universe. That sort of devotion within her is unbreakable. 

It’s all thanks to the woman before her. 

“Then be honest, Momo.” 

Later that evening, after she watched Bakatono late that night with her grandmother, she trudged up to her spare bedroom. All of her things are still in place. She didn’t take much to university with her. Only the important things. Seiko told her to leave everything there, in case she came back. 

She smiles, feeling an overwhelming amount of safety in the spaces of these walls. Her grandmother did everything for her. “Thanks, granny,” she murmurs. She closes the door and collapses in her bed. She feels like she’s sixteen after her first heartbreak. Hopefully, she thinks, it won’t be an actual heartbreak. It’s a weird middle ground she and Ken are in. She hasn’t heard from him, not once. She suddenly jumps up, running to her bag to the bookshelf. She digs out her phone and sees something flash in the notifications. 

She opens her email and it’s a message from Ken. Her heart is beating so fast, and she feels like maybe this could be something. It had been sent about thirty minutes ago. 

(It’s done.) 

The message reads like the last one he sent. She opens it and it’s the newest edition, completed and edited. It is still missing his portion. Her eyes frantically go back to see if there are any notes in the margins. 

(Mine will be late again. I apologize, please be patient with me.) 

Her heart thrums. Could he mean? He means what? She wants to call him. She looks back at the contacts there in her phone and scrolls to find his name. 

Is he the same way? Does Ken feel that eagerness whenever she types back a response? So she does, she doesn’t call him. She just sends him a simple message through text. 

(I'll be waiting for it. Thank you.)

Momo feels like she can sleep better that night. It’s a tiny bit of movement between them. They are no longer stagnant water, they are as even as the push and pull of the tides. 

When Momo heads back to university that upcoming day. She feels an anticipation inside of her. It’s coiling itself in her gut like a snake. She wants to see Ken. She wants to see him. She has to tell him. 

Hey, I think I like you, probably. Maybe. Do you like me too? 

Ugh, she rubs her hand roughly through her hair. She messes up her bangs and then brushes them back. That’s stupid. She’s an adult. An honest to-good real adult. She’s pushing twenty-two. She had to face these feelings soon or maybe she’d just bust with the emotion. She can’t let it end the way it has. The way they’ve been lingering, their fingertips dipping themselves into cold waters. She knows it’s deep. Everything is scary. Love, family, friendship– but leaving it with nothing left unsaid. Surely, it had to be something. He has to have felt it too. Right?

When she receives the final posted product of their newest edition, she doesn’t read it. She knows what she wrote, Ken still hasn’t posted his section. 

He had told her a simple message. 

(I’m posting mine later. It’ll be separate.) 

Separate, the word weighing her down. Is this his way of saying no? No, I don’t like you. Momo wouldn’t back down though. She’s antsy that entire day. Her entire body thrummed, needing to search for him. She doesn’t see him in class. He had been absent from poetry and had not gone to see Professor Yamagishi. Before she can leave, he stops her. 

“Ayase-san,” the older gentleman says. 

“Yes, sir?” 

He gives her a warm smile, a knowing one. “How do you feel about pursuing your master’s?” 

She blinks and then blinks again. “What?” 

“How do you feel about advancing your education?” 

“I would love to,” she tells him. “I want to write, really bad.” 

Professor Yamagishi is much more solid than he’s ever been. “Also, how would you feel if I wrote you an offer letter for an internship?” 

Momo’s heart thumps, and it thumps. “Really?” She’s smiling, completely enamored. “Like really? You–you would do that?” 

Professor Yamagishi nods. “Of course, I would.” 

“Then yes! I would be so honored I have no idea what to say.” 

The older man nods, writing something down on his calendar. “You’re doing great things, Ayase-san.” 

“Thank you, I–I owe it to you and Okarun.” 

Yamagishi only smiles at her, it is all too knowing. “Takakura-san was the one who suggested you for the role,” he says. “I had asked him and he turned it down. He wanted you to do it.” 

Momo blinks. What? “Why would he do that?” 

It’s a simple sentence he tells her, but it makes her heart pound in her ears. “Ayase-san, some people are not as they seem. Sometimes they do things for others rather than speak for themselves.” 

Momo gapes. “Is he still on campus?” 

Yamagishi nods, and she runs. Her feet take her down the corridors, and she bursts out through the glass doors. All of the students leave their classrooms, one person calls out to her. 

“Ayase-san! Have you seen the newest edition of your newsletter?” She remembers his name is Shin. That’s right. 

“Yeah, have you seen Okarun?” She asks him frantically. 

Shin raises a brow. “No, but did you see what he–” 

Momo runs, and Shin calls out to her. It’s lost on her ears. “Hey! Ayase-san! You should read what he wrote!” 

She dashes through the sidewalks, her eyes scanning everywhere for him. Then she spots him there, he’s slouching like always. Her relief floods through her, and her sides ache. She’s found him. 

He looks up then, shock clear as day on his face. His glasses no longer shield his eyes. They shimmer in the light and she bounds towards him. “Okarun!” 

“Ayase-san?” 

When she approaches him she nearly keels over. “Oh shit, ouch!” She holds her sides, and then she laughs. 

He looks at her more than concerned. He holds out his hands, and then he draws them back. 

“I’ve been looking for you!” She announces a little too loudly. Some of the students glance at them curiously. Ken’s cheeks flush a deep red. 

He doesn’t speak though. He looks nervous, strung up too tight. “Hey, did you see it?” 

Momo jolts up. “No! But I heard what you did for me, from Professor Yamagishi.” 

Ken’s face is as bright as a tomato. “You did, uh, I–” 

She huffs. “You did all of that for me?” 

He looks away, bashful. He nods mutely. Is this how he’s always been underneath that cool exterior? Just a nervous guy worried about connections? Momo finds him all too endearing. She wants to know everything about him. All of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Even about his silly alien theories. All of the notes he’s written in the margins of her papers giving her criticism, she wants it all for herself. If he’ll let her. 

“Did you read it?” He asks softly. The look he gives her is heart-wrenching.

She shakes her head. “Read what? I published the newest edition already.” 

He swallows then, he tries to stand up straighter. His posture tightened. “Please, look at your emails.” 

She reaches into her bag, pulling out the device. “What? What is it?” 

Ken groans. “Just–will you read it.” 

Momo gives him a curious glance but opens up the notification like always. And then she reads. 

She is at a loss entirely. It’s a think piece about her work and dedication to the paranormal newsletter. He had written an entire article about her. It goes into depth about her accolades, her scholarships, her profoundness, and her relationships. He had even reached out to the people she directly corresponds with on her pages about their stories. 

(Ayase-san is a reverent writer, she is kind. Her stories form into reality, her words connecting with others.) 

She feels the tears streaming down her face. It is so beautiful, no one had ever done something like this for her. All of the pieces about her work through this newsletter celebrating three years had been just a shock to her. Why on earth would he go to this much trouble? Had this been what he’d been doing? This entire time? 

“Okarun, I don’t understand–” He cuts her off. His approach is deliberate. 

He holds the look in her eyes with his own. It’s even, level with hers. He doesn’t look away. “You do understand. I think you know exactly why I did all of this.” 

Momo’s mouth parts and it’s a gasp that comes forth from her lips. Oh, she knows. Of course, she knows. She just wants him to say it. Please, say it. 

“I do, but can you tell me? Now, please.” 

He gives a shuddering breath. “I read your newsletter in the first year and it has remained with me. Your words, your stories, the connections. I wanted to be there where you stood. I wanted to be close to you.” 

Her breathing nearly stops. She doesn’t realize but she steps closer to him. 

He’s still speaking. “I had been inspired by you, I even envied you. The way you intertwined people's lives from the mythological; to the fantastical. I wanted to be you.” 

She swallows, and she still feels the tears coming. All of this time. “Why didn’t you say that then?” She wipes her eyes, she can’t stop her laugh. It’s wet and bubbling forth. 

He offers her a genuine smile, and it breaks through the clouds. “I had to do something for myself for once.” 

Momo understands now that it’s something she’d have to ask about later. “I feel the same way,” she whispers. “About you.” 

Ken widens his eyes at the admission. Almost forgetting about what he had just said. “You do?” 

Momo throws her head back. “Of course! I thought maybe you didn’t want to be with me.” 

He shakes his head. “Momo.” Her name coming from his voice makes her startle. She wants him to say it again. Again and again and again. “I would be an idiot not to feel the same. I was just too stubborn to put it into words.” 

She snorts, wiping her face. “Yeah, I see that now.” 

He approaches her, his hands lifting, but staying just a distance away. “May I?” 

Momo feels light, elated like those shoujo bubbles drawn in manga. How did she get so lucky? “Of course, dork.” 

He reaches forward, hands brushing up against her cheeks. Ken’s heart nearly jumps out of him. She’s as warm as he thought. She is as soft as peach blossoms in winter. His fingers brushed against the strands of her hair. “Momo,” he says again. It makes her eyelashes flutter, and he holds her in his hands. 

This is enough, she thinks. This is enough for her. Just for right now. 

Her hand reaches up to grasp his wrist. “Ken,” she breathes. He nearly kisses her then. Almost all of his restraint is gone just by hearing her say his name. She has his heart in between her palms. It’s safe here, he thinks. Wherever she is, he is at home back where the gramophone is. Where he can hear the music play softly. The sweetness of hard candy on his tongue, the ones his grandfather would hand him in secret. He is here now in the present, tasting life on his tongue. It’s real, honest to god, love. No matter how hard it crackles, it seems to get stuck in his teeth. He’s home. 

He’s made it here. Momo had punched holes in his chest, opening him up. He revels in her brightness, where the bloom of spring and hope is present within this sphere they’ve created. Their united passion for their weird tastes brings them forth together. They fit where it matters. 

He is no longer iron, he thinks happily. He presses his forehead against hers. He no longer has his mother’s mouth. He is not as distant as his father. He is in the present where Momo’s words take shape in front of him. His love for her writing is real and true. He loves her too. 

When she pulls away, she wipes her face. “I hate crying,” she grounds out. 

“Those better be happy tears,” he protests, a smile playing on his lips. 

“Of course they are!” 

He laughs then, and it’s radiant. Momo’s heart flutters in her chest. He looks free like this. Similar to a caged bird being set free from the confines of its metal enclosure. His wings form and he can take flight. She’s glad he can come back to her. 

“We’re unseemly,” he says finally. He gives her a teasing expression. Momo offers her hand. 

“What now?” 

He takes her hand in his, and he wants to live there. Forever. How did he ever let himself deny this? How did he go so long without letting the feelings take over? He is an idiot. 

“I don’t know,” he says finally. Momo makes a face, about to argue. “I do know I want to be with you.” 

His eyes are genuine, and they’re honest. Momo sighs in relief. “Yeah, me too.” 

Finally, she says it. She swallows, and she purses her lips. “I like you a lot, so do you want to be with me?” 

He considers it, and she’s about to pull his ear because he’s teasing her, again! “I did just say that earlier, so–” 

“You’re an asshole! Will you just say it?” She’s laughing, she can’t believe he would do that. She certainly can because he just did it. 

Ken moves towards her without thinking. He doesn’t have to second guess himself anymore. He breathes against her forehead, his lips brushing the skin. “Of course I do.” 

Momo hums gently, her lips moving towards his cheek. “Dork.” 

His nose is against her temple, and he kisses her there. “Insufferable woman.” 

She pulls back, he doesn’t let her get too far away. “Oh please! You’re a smartass.” There’s no real insult to it, she means it affectionately and he takes it as is. 

“Sure, sure,” he mutters. He kisses her temple again. “Come on, the new edition is waiting for us to write it.” 

She pokes him gently, and they head towards the library. 

The two of them are interwoven, bound like the words written in the stories they write.

This is enough for them. 

Momo brushes her hands against his face. "How long had it been anyway?" She asks. 

He hums, his glasses askew. "About?" 

Momo grins, shifting to sit closer to him. She could sit in his lap, but she's worried it may cause him to leave. Baby steps. "That you've known you liked me?" She flutters her eyelashes cutely, her eyes shimmering in that way that is so clearly fake. Ken looks at her like she's crazy. 

"Really, Momo?" 

She kisses him again on the lips. "Please?" 

He groans, but he can't help it. "I started liking you after you wrote about the Jersey Devil," he mumbles. She beams at him, scooting closer on her knees.

"Oh? And?" 

He raises an eyebrow. Momo tickles the hair at the base of his neck. They've been at this for thirty minutes. They hardly got any work done. He needed to remind her next time that business means business. Ken realizes though, that he did start it when she invited him back to her dorm. He had kissed her first. Well, it's easier now. He didn't realize he had years' worth of pent-up frustration. Or maybe she just brought that out in him. 

"I loved the article so much I printed it off and I journaled it. There, happy?" 

She squeals, and her smile is devious. "Tell me about it again!" 

"Momo!" 

She kisses his neck, her lips drawing a path to his jaw. "Sorry, not sorry." 

His hands slide up her back. This is fine, he thinks. He can let her have this. He'll grill her later about when she started liking him. He did notice she had started keeping all of the papers he critiqued of hers anyway. He grins against her lips, her hands tangling in his hair. 

He cherishes the moment as he goes. He's been waiting for this.