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Fall signals the death of spirits, of leaves withering away and animals scurrying away to hide from the upcoming frost. However, the first time you see her, she flits into the lecture hall like a bird returning in the spring and chirps a hello at you when she perches down on the seat to your right. The trees outside are already half-barren, but this girl brings with her a lively breeze, a slight and floral trace that invades your space, although it’s not as unwelcome as you think it should be.
She asks for your name, cheery disposition pouring out from her every word, and it slips out of you as easily as a breath of air. She introduces herself as well, though before you could exchange any more pleasantries the professor walks in and the two of you turn to pay attention.
In between note pages, you can’t help but keep thinking that she smells really nice.
I’d like to know what perfume you use.
You make plans to go see a movie, a cliche chick flick that you couldn’t care less about, but for some reason you take any chances to spend time with her. The two of you hit up a fast food joint after, slowly finishing your fries and sipping on the last dregs of your drinks over idle chitchat.
You don’t really know what it was that you said, but all of a sudden she starts laughing, so hard that her eyes clench shut and her sides heave.
Her soda pop breath makes something bubble up in your throat, but you try to convince yourself that it’s just that you need to burp.
I want to laugh like that with you.
You offhandedly mention that you’re part of the archery team on campus and she insists that she come see you practice. You’re a little nervous about messing up in front of her for a reason you’re unsure of, so instead of dwelling on it you square your shoulders, pushing your worries down and grounding your feet. You draw the string taut, and, after a breath of concentration, let the arrow fly, finding satisfaction in the familiar thunk it makes when it hits its mark.
You hear an elated gasp behind you and turn around to see that admiration had washed over her. She praises your archery skills and excitedly asks to try shooting an arrow, although she finds that it’s actually a lot harder than she thinks when the bowstring refuses the yield to her insistent tugs.
She makes a remark about how you must be very strong to be an archer to do it so effortlessly, and you don’t think before rolling your sleeves up and flexing. She gasps again and pokes at your toned arm, and the realization of what you’re doing hits you like an arrow in the back.
With her watching you intently from behind, you return your attention to your bow, hoping that with every notch you let go, with every slow inhalation, your heart will also cease it’s reckless thundering.
You give me something to aim for.
You say that it’s because it’s getting colder and you’re using her as a walking heater, but really you just like the feeling of her body pressed against yours. She never objects, and she’s always the first to move despite the fact that you’re the one who asks. A part of you chokes up when she pulls away to huff at your joke, but the chill bleeding into the space where she once was persuades her to shift back in. Her arms loop around your neck and your own arms find their way around her waist, as it is every time, even though neither of you are taller than the other. Relief pools in your stomach when she does, and you feel like crying when she sighs into the crook of your neck.
It’s too bad that as well as the growing cold, the approaching snowy season brings with it layers that muffle her soft curves and her softer heartbeat.
I want to make a home in your arms.
She’s majoring in fashion design, and for her final project she asked you to be her model. You try to refuse at first, stringing excuses of archery duties and studying one after the other. You’re sure that you’d look like a rain-clogged stray draped in fabrics too pricey for you to imagine. (Of course, the problem will take root entirely in you. Anything made by her talented hands will look like it belongs on a Paris runway.) You’re quick to stammer out a yes, though, when she pouts because she knows you can’t say no to her when she does that, and god knows you can’t say no to her when she does that.
A couple weeks later, she calls you to her studio for some finalizations. When you see what she prepared for you, your protest return with renewed vigor. She silences them quickly with a disapproving click of her tongue, pushing the garments into your hands and ushering you into a curtained stall.
The top flies well enough with you, accentuating what little curves you have in a flattering manner. The skirt, however, is too… short for comfort, and you step out of the stall tugging on it.
Her eyes immediately scan over the outfit’s entirety, picking out crooked seams and uneven edges, and you know it’s only the most innocent of looks, but you can’t help but think of things that are shameful shameful shameful, so you swallow your thoughts and push them deeper into the back of your mind.
Every bit of you strains to be still while she makes her adjustments. She softly hums nonsensical tunes as she bunches up some loose fabric around your bust, accidentally brushes her hands against the tops of your thighs as she calculates how many inches to lengthen the skirt. You’re getting so flustered, and her quiet scrutiny isn’t helping you at all. She looks up at you abruptly to ask if you’re okay and you realize you’re fidgeting with the edge of your sleeves. Your face, she tells you, is red and it’s alarming her, but you frantically wave it off as the room being too warm for you. A hold on you is released when she hesitantly accepts your answer, and she continues to fuss over the fabrics.
Scribbling down which areas required attention, she cheerfully thanks you for your help. She hugs you before pushing you into the changing stall one last time, and you imagine that her hand lingers a little. Perhaps all it is, is the ghost of her palm on your back.
I like how your hands feel on me.
It comes out of the blue, rising out of the depths of the ocean to catch you off guard. You’re both making your ways to the dormitories, treading through the snow-covered sidewalk, when she teases you about your habit of being too uptight and formal with all that you do. You feign offense, choosing to give her the silent treatment at her playful quip, and after several failed attempts to break your resolve, she gives up and thumps your shoulder, laughing out, “Come on, Umi, you know you love me.”
That makes you falter midstep. Concern darkens her features when you fall completely to a stop. She said it so easily, and it makes you think that maybe you had overcomplicated everything. You breathe out, the weight of your words growing lighter with every syllable, disappearing with the wispy cloud that escapes your lungs when you say, “Yeah, I know I love you.” The air that fills your lungs after is cold, refreshing and scorching all at once.
The soft oh that follows the silence tears at your heart, and you feel like clawing at your chest to stop that awful, awful thud-thudding. You can’t believe you fucked up this badly. You’re think that maybe you should say, “It’s joke!” so the two of you can awkwardly laugh it off, but at this point whatever you say won’t be believable. So instead, you opt to set the wreckage on fire instead of waiting for it to catch flames on its own. “I love you so much it hurts.”
You were expecting rejection to sting your cheek. You realize far too late that you don’t know if she’s even into girls. The stillness becomes too much for you, and you begin to cough out words, wildly gesture with you hands, anything to take up the painful space you created. You find that you can’t bear to look her in the eyes.
She grasps your face between her palms so that you’re both face to face, and you can barely hear her over the cars and the wind whistling by when she whispers, “Maybe I can help you relieve your burden.” The hands gently tug you down, and her lips meet yours halfway, short and chaste and cherry sweet.
You think you’ve ascended to someplace higher up, because you’re finding it a little more than hard to convince yourself that you didn’t hear wrong, that you didn’t just hallucinate the whole ordeal. Your cheeks do end up stinging, but it’s mostly from how hard you’re grinning. Was it even possible for a single person to feel this happy? Your fingers find hers under the light of the streetlamps, and the two of you squeeze closer, a familiar manner, with the addition of a new kind of warmth that is born from the seam of your tightly-pressed palms. Reveling in your newfound euphoria, you remember an old wish and you call out to her.
“Kotori, can I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
“What perfume do you use?”