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You see him a year later on a summer’s day you’d think you wouldn’t care to remember. It’s a busy train station, aoba-doriof the senseki line, the early morning bustle of commuters heading to sendai station. You walked past him and it takes the few moments your nintendo takes to save your progress, for you to realize, “Oh. It’s him. the one—” and when the ping of your game sounds you try to ignore the sudden buzzing in your ears, the way your pulse speeds up as you don’t let yourself think, maybe,
does he still think about you?
Of course not.
you don’t let yourself think he does.
The first time you met him was in a cosy little dessert shop in aoyama-dori, the safe heaven you found when you were 15 and craving for apple pie while being dragged around Minato-ku with your childhood best friend.
(You weren’t actually dragged around, he promised you dessert and you agreed to come.)
You frequented the place. Inconsistently, always returning with a new book in hand or sketchbooks and pencils in another. You tried bringing your games here once when you were 15, but the sharp, loudness of your games sliced through the comfortable ambience of the shop, and for once you put the games down in favour soothing, quieter pastimes.
The first time he came, he brought with him what he always did, a storm. He came in unannounced, and with elegance draped across him like a silken sheet, he commanded attention in a way that drew focus to him, long lashes inked like dark midnight on the canvas of his unblemished face.
He looks around for a seat, and your eyes meet and—
He doesn’t remember you.
You’ve never officially met.
But when his eyes widen before his face breaks into a grin, you find yourself more than shocked.
“Ah, pudding-chan! What a coincidence!”
at that time, you didn’t know what was coming. you didn’t know how he’d make your heart flutter.
Later, he sits in front of you with the caramel latte he’s ordered. You try being polite, occasionally looking up from the book you were reading though never once putting it down or closing it. Thankfully for you, he’s satisfied with doing the talking, not loud or obnoxious the way you thought it’d be, but quiet and a part of you is grateful. Sometimes he smiles like he knows.
Halfway through the conversation, somewhere in between how he likes his cookies with orange peels and which university he was going to, you realize you haven’t read past the first sentence in ages.
The second time you see him is two months later, with a new book in hand and you’re halfway through your hot chocolate when he walks through the door.
The smile from his lips never drop, even when he spots you, and when he comes over to take a seat in front of you, he lets out a hum of, “So you do come here often after all.”
You don’t deny it, and he has an amused smirk behind his fingers, chin rested on his palm. There’s something about the way he slouches that tells you his inherently tired, though you aren’t sure if you should ask. Before you can say anything, though, he says, “I didn’t get a chance to ask you what your book was about,” and since you weren’t any good with words in the first place you decided to distract you both with stories of war and riches.
Somewhere between slaying a two-headed serpent and your second apple pie you let slip of, “I didn’t think you’d remember me.” He blinks, almost owlishly, and then he smiles, saying, “You made it to the finals in your second year of high school. You were a setter, too. Of course I’d remember.”
But I was nothing special, you want to say.
You don’t, because while you were nothing special, he obviously was, but he never got to make it to finals.
Back then, he didn’t even make nationals once.
There was once you were about to leave, hand almost outstretched in an attempt to push open the door when it swung inwards and familiar curls of brown hair caught your attention. You looked at each other, surprised. Scanning you with minute flickers of his eyes, he considers whatever was on his mind for a moment, before opening his mouth to ask if he could join you where you were going.
“It’s not the same without the company,” he reasons, and though you didn’t think you were much company to begin with, somewhere along the lines of ordering a mocha frappuccino and discussing volleyball plays you wind up at the bookstore with him beside you.
The smell of both fresh and dusty books wafts through the room, and it’s no surprise to find out he’s on the national team, but you haven’t played volleyball seriously since graduating high school. Still, you listen to his thoughtful analysis of possible combinations, and you nod your head in approval every now and then.
You stop by a shelf of old books when a particular one catches your eye.
“‘Forbidden Fruit ’, eh? Not a bad choice,” he says and you turn to him with curious eyes because you didn’t think he was the kind to read. He smiles at you again like he knows, and you spend the remainder of the day trading book recommendations and calculated theories on motifs and imageries.
You left the store long after the sun had set with a bag heavied with books but a heart as light as helium, your body on a rush that felt sweeter than apple pie.
you think that maybe it didn’t mean anything. maybe it didn’t have to.
Sometimes you’d see him once every two weeks, sometimes not for months at all. You’ve learned he smells of summer, of the ichijiku from the trees of his mother’s garden.
You wonder why you think of the scent even when winter comes.
He takes you out to ramen one night when he gets off practice late.
you weren’t waiting for him. you weren’t. you weren’t.
He orders extra boiled eggs and noodles with his tonkatsu while you have plain shouyu. He’s quiet when he eats, a comfortable silence settling between you at that by-the-street stall along Arakich ō . You notice the way his eyes light up when he drinks the first of mouthfuls of soup, the way he has to lean down slightly more than others to eat because of his stature.
He pays for your half of the meal before you can, “as an apology for being late today,” but it's not as if there had been any prior arrangements between the both of you.
Still, the meal was a pleasant surprise, and you let yourself imagine what it would be like to do it again. Under the fluorescent lights of Shinjuku , the light buzz of the crowd only a few streets away and the subtle city noises of cars on the main road, he catches your gaze, and the world slows down around you.
You think that, maybe, you could— the both of you could—
He leans forward, hesitant at first, mouth open just slightly, and you— you want to, even though you're still, God, you want to and you wait for him to smile like he just knows how you feel—
except he doesn't, smile.
In fact, he doesn't smile at all. He recoils, even if just slightly. Just like that the moment passes. The world is put back on play, and you both walk down Akirachō , heavy, and tired.
“Go somewhere with me,” he says the next time you see him, and over the apple pie he had so kindly bought you, you couldn't bring yourself to say no.
or at least that's what you told yourself.
you could've. you know you could've.
You take a train and there isn't much talking, but it's enjoyable in its own merits as you read your book and he reads over your shoulder.
He takes you to an art museum, with calligraphy paintings and pretty wooden dolls, says he remembers that one time he saw your sketches of the gingko trees of Yoyogi Koen.
You don't know how to respond, words and actions lost on you, so you don't, but you think that maybe, for him it's enough, and you walk with him through the rooms over and over and over again. Never tiring of the displays, never tiring of each other.
things are alright like this,
give it time. give it time.
There are days he’d offer to walk with you to the train station.
Maybe, you’d think, maybe we could—
You banish the thought from your head. Not once have you let yourself say yes.
sadly, time was the one thing you didn't have.
You order a cup of hot chocolate one day and, along with the cup and pristine tea plate the young lady behind the counter gives you, comes a sealed, brown envelope with cursive writing on the front. she smiles at you knowingly, and you have a hunch who’s it from.
You sip on your hot chocolate, reading the fifth chapter of Titus Andronicus.
The letter remains unopened even when you get back home.
You never knew why that cup of hot chocolate was on-the-house until you go back weeks later to that corner at aoyama-dori and realize your favorite little dessert shop had closed for good.
You walk back to the train station feeling empty.
You don't see him for months until you turn on the television one day to watch your favorite cooking show, but the familiar ferociousness and power of ball whizzes past on screen stops you in its wake.
He looks a little taller, hair immaculately kempt even in court and he serves another ball; another service ace. You don't mean to watch, but your eyes trail his athlete’s body and linger on his left knee, gaze trailing his presence on court and you can't look away when he sets.
You don't notice time passing or the sun setting. You watch till the end even though you knew who the winner was going to be, and at the end of it all, you cook yourself cupped ramen and drown yourself in fizzled drinks trying to forget it all.
You throw away the half-uneaten portion of tonkatsu.
Later that night you lay awake in bed with memories of Shinjuku haunting you. You tell yourself not to think of it, and instead you distract yourself with The Tale Of Genji and three pages of Frankenstein before calling it a night, finally being lulled to sleep.
the first time he came through the doors ,
the cafe had been empty.
you cast away the thought that
he chose to sit with you anyway.
Two days later you dig through your shelf searching for Titus Andronicus , books strewn on your bed and floor. You curse at having piled up your books without arranging them, and when you finally find it, you tear through the pages until you reach the end of chapter five. right where you left it the last time you were at the dessert shop.
You pick up the envelope, your name written in an immaculate cursive font that you can only describe as his, but in your rush and desperation you tear it open, almost splitting it in half in your haste.
you think this is what longing feels like.
you think maybe it’s not too late.
You read it, even as the blood pounds in your ears, lip worried between teeth.
Pudding-chan,
I was going to tell you directly, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable with that.
So! I decided to write it to you in this letter instead. That way, you can just ignore this if you don’t feel the same.
You try not to think about what “feel the same” could mean, and instead you pick up the pace of your reading, anxious because What if… What if…
I think I like you, love you even, in love with you.
And you hold your breath, seconds, long and far, pass, as the realization settles deep within you.
you weren’t the only one.
you weren’t. you weren’t.
Here’s my number. If you feel the same, then text me and I’ll take you out for coffee sometime,
The words “or apple pie” scribbled messily underneath,
and if you don’t, you don’t have to say anything. I’ll understand.
For mad seconds, you feel your heart swell, hands fidgety as you try to find your phone amongst the piles of books on your bed. You key in the number, wondering why it took you so long to read this when you realize
It has been long, hasn’t it?
You count the weeks spanned into months and before you know it you’re counting not just two months, or three, but five or six—
you think maybe it isn’t too late,
but it is.
You don’t text him that day. Or the following days either.
You can’t bring yourself to.
A year later he sees you, at aoba-dori of senseki line. “ Oh, ” he thinks, “it’s you ,” and he does remember you, he does, he does, and he wants to call out to you, words almost leaving his lips after months and months of longing but—
he doesn’t.
In the busy station next to sendai, you pass each other, and the memories fade.
years pass,
and eventually,
you can’t remember the smell of ichijiku anymore.