For two months, Aoi spends her time doing homework, then obsessively drawing pictures of landscapes she’s never seen in person before, until her wrists are throbbing with pain, and she finds herself giving up her short-lived dream of becoming an artist.
Her mother scolds her for not being more careful. Her father merely shrugs, then pats Aoi on the shoulder, softly, as to avoid hurting his daughter. “I would do the same, too, sometimes,” he tells her, “if I were in your position.”
That night, they do not fight over medical bills. Instead, Aoi’s mother accuses her father of putting strange ideas into Aoi’s mind.
“Don’t you see she is supposed to rest?”
“Why did you tell her that?”
“Because of you, she will get even sicker!”
Aoi worries for her future. She knows she isn’t good for nothing—and yet, nothing is good for her.
She does not think it is the world’s fault, though, nor is it hers either.
The young woman is lost.
She does not even know what it is, that she is looking for.
*
A month before her trip with Damian, Aoi is cleaning her room. As the young woman does her best to blink the dots out of her vision, every time she bends over to pluck a stray pillow up and away from wooden floorboards, something taps at her bedroom’s window.
She pauses. A voice in the young woman’s head tells her she should technically be feeling at least a tad bit of fear at the noise—for it is quite the unusual occurrence in her day to day life—yet, lately, Aoi has found herself being afraid of different plagues.
Fading away without ever having truly existed, to name one.
Aoi checks the hallway through her half-open door, first and foremost, to make sure her parents are home so that, if need be, she can call for help. Relying on others, in her opinion, is something to be pitied, however, she has gotten used to it over the years—not out of choice, but necessity.
Of course, when Aoi realizes who it is that has thrown tiny rocks at her window, she frowns, immediately closes her door, then opens her blindfolds, and hisses, “Damian, what the heck? What are you doing? Did you think you were in a movie?”
“Nah, if I had to guess, I’m in a book.”
“It’s ten on a weekday, Damian—go home.”
“But I wanted to talk to you!”
Aoi’s fingers tense against the windowsill.
Damian hooks a hand around the back of his neck. He tilts his head downward, then stares at his feet. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to scare you… or creep you out. My boss made me deliver some food to a guy two streets down. I figured I’d say hi, since… you don’t really seem like you’re too fond of texting.”
So, he could tell, Aoi thinks to herself as she shifts on her feet, then sighs.
It is not as cold as it used to be outside. She cannot use the weather as an excuse.
Granted, the young woman could always tell him she is tired, or supposed to abide by her parent’s rules, as long as she is living under their roof—however, neither of those things have ever stopped her from doing what she wanted when she truly wished to act on a whim. “Okay,” she eventually says, and Damian’s face lights up. “But give me five minutes first.”
“O-of course,” he blurts. His back is much straighter than before. He salutes her. “I’ll wait! T-thank you!”
Aoi steps away from her window. A chuckle escapes her lips. She wipes it away with her knuckles. And thinks to herself, What an idiot.
The night falls silent once more—enough for her to hear the incessant argument going on between her parents, behind their bedroom door.
Aoi shakes her head. She walks up to the bathroom, takes her pills, marks down the time when she took them on a flimsy, off-white sheet of paper, before she slips into her shoes right at the steps of her front door, and slides out of the house unnoticed.
Sometimes, she feels like a ghost.
But then, Damian sees her, and he waves at Aoi between a patch of two firefly packs.
His smile is contagious. She tries to fight it.
She cannot.
Damian realizes she has not brought out a jumper along with her—that, or she has forgotten. He cannot help but notice how skinny the girl is. He wonders how long she’s been surviving off those drinks for.
He takes off his coat, then hands it to her.
Yet, the young woman refuses. “I can’t,” she tells him. As goosebumps rise across her arms; she stares at the article of clothing with what Damian considers a rather strange intensity.
“Why not?” he asks, while offering it up to her once more. “I’ve been running around like crazy. I’m not cold.”
Aoi clicks her tongue. It seems she has misjudged the weather. Granted, it is not as bad as it was last Winter, but it is true that she is mere skin, mere bones—she should have worn something more than just a T-shirt. “I’m allergic,” she admits; even though that is not quite right—it is the easiest way to explain it, so that people will understand without asking too many questions.
Damian starts walking. The young woman follows suit. “To what?” he asks her.
Everything, she wants to say. But she shrugs instead. She tells him, “Certain materials. Makes my skin itch like crazy. I hate it.”
Hearing these words makes Damian linger on the thought that what he assumed might’ve been a temporary illness, may actually be a lifelong curse for this girl. “Don’t worry.” He pats her on the shoulder. Aoi holds herself back from wincing. “We’ll make sure the aliens will fix you once we find them.”
This is definitely the first time Aoi has heard such a reply in response to her dilemma. In an odd, abstract way, she finds it soothing, and a great change from her relatives and teachers, who always escalate what does not need to be escalated.
Perhaps, she thinks, it is because we do not know each other that well; he is still able to keep his distance, from feelings that others will hold onto and grasp with all their might.
“Thanks,” Aoi echoes, just like he had before. She shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her dark, navy sweatpants. “Also, I’m sorry for the way that I text. I’m not good with phones.”
“Yeah, I figured that might be the case.” His laughter is like a brief hint of sunlight that pierces a room full of shadows. Aoi wishes she could record it, then play it on repeat, for she is sure that at some point he will grow sick of her—and she wants to have made enough memories with him before that happens. She wants, to capture the sun, so that it will be with her, always, after tonight. “Can I at least ask you how your month was? Or are you going to reply with another peace-sign and a Not Now?”
“Wow.” They pass by a convenience store. A bunch of twenty-somethings are drinking on its front. The scent of the beer lingering in the air makes Aoi want to puke. She holds her breath. “That sounds a lot worse when you say it aloud,” she tells Damian.
“You don’t hate me, do you?” Damian’s tone is quieter, and much less confident than before. “I mean,” he clears his throat. “Like, I totally don’t mind if you just have beef with texting—or phones in general—but if it’s me, let me know, and I’ll just… piss off to wherever it is I came from.” Damian has seen Aoi’s house; it is clear to him that, although Aoi’s family is not swimming in pools of gold, the young woman is likely a lot more well off than Damian believes he will ever be. This makes Damian want to avert every and all mention of his one-room apartment, unless it is strictly necessary.
Basically, he’s ashamed.
Aoi coughs into her elbow. It hasn’t even been five minutes yet, but her throat is already aching, dry and sore.
She curses under her breath. Crickets in a nearby bush begin to sing their hearts out. Aoi wants to go home. “To give you a better perspective,” she says, “I haven’t replied to anyone, but you and my doctor, in months.”
“Okay!” Damian laughs again, and Aoi decides that she truly cannot get enough of the sound. “Now I’m kind of honored… and a little worried.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, sunshine boy, I just don’t have any other friends. That’s all.”
They walk past the convenience store once more; Aoi wonders how many more times she’s going to have to stop breathing in order to avoid throwing up all over Damian—or, more precisely: on the jacket Damian had offered to lend her earlier tonight.
She leads him away from the store, then toward a bench instead, so that they can sit, and talk, and pretend this nocturnal meeting never happened, once they both walk away from each other. “Do you think we’ll really find them?”
Damian hums. He stares upward, at the stars that illuminate the night. “Who?” he asks her. “The aliens?”
She nods.
And the young man grins.
He cannot wait to be far from this world that he knows all too well. He cannot wait, to meet the unknown. “Of course!” he exclaims, as he rises to his feet once more with a sudden surge of determination. “We’ll definitely run into one!” Damian punches the air. We have to, he thinks.
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