HEATHER ver. Purple | Solitude

A gust of the warm spring breeze blows through the schoolyard where Shiro sits under the same tree for lunch. He pulls out a leaf that had fallen into his white hair and begins to ponder to himself.

“There’s this odd kid in my class....”

Shiro glances up through the long bangs of his hair at Momo, who sits crisscrossed on the grass next to him, arms leaning back, staring up at the sky above them.

“Lately … he’s always around.”

After the bell rings to signify the end of lunch, Shiro walks through the halls to get back to the classroom, where whispers are heard, and glances are caught by the students standing on the sides.

“Just look at him....”

“Why does his hair look like that?”

“How scary....”

Shiro throws his hood over his head, his eyes shooting down to his feet, and he pulls the wired earphones out of his pocket to tune out his surroundings.

Momo, who walks alongside him, watches Shiro’s movements, but he keeps to himself as he always has since their encounter on the street that night. He wasn’t sure if he was imposing, but he didn’t want to lean too close either, and since Shiro hadn’t said a word of complaint—or a word at all, for that matter—he continued to stay beside him.

As the week went by, Shiro took notice of his particular peer almost everywhere he went, from the moment school began to when it ended. And it wasn’t that the boy named Momo was following him. No, Shiro just realized he’d become conscious of the boy all around school.

Maybe it was the strange plum-colored curly hair of his; maybe it was the freckled tan skin; maybe it was his short height—or maybe it was because he was everything Shiro was not.

When Shiro left after-school study, clubs were still in session. As he walked past the open doors of the school’s gymnasium, it wasn’t too difficult to spot the shorter boy freely playing along with the basketball club members. Just the other day, Shiro had spotted him playing with the soccer club.

Momo shoots a 3-pointer into the net, and the team cheers as they lift the shorter boy in the air. Classmates who came to watch swarm around, saying his name with pride.

“He’s athletic and popular. Favored by everyone around him.”

Shiro’s mind then replays the morning. When he passed the frames of the classroom door just before the first bell was set to chime, his eyes were already looking toward the window seat in the back of the room.

A bright voice called out to him. “Hey, Shiro!” 

His eyes meet with Momo's, whose face lights up the room as his arm waves energetically in the air. Shiro blinks once, and he sees the bigger picture around him.

Peers surround Momo’s desk as they wait for the bell to ring before taking their seats. They stared at him as he walked further into the room, and it was in their presence that Shiro kept silent, as their expression didn’t hold the same beaming look as Momo’s.

“And yet, he brings himself to someone like me.”

✻ ✻ ✻

“I’m home,” Shiro announces as he enters his house in the late afternoon, kicking off his shoes and leaving them at the doorway of the front door.

“Welcome home, Son,” his father greets when he enters the kitchen. “I’m getting ready to make dinner.”

“Do you need help?”

“It’s alright, Son.” His father smiles. “How was school?”

Shiro props himself up on the kitchen stool, crossing his arms over the counter. “It was good,” he answered. “The usual.”

“I know you keep up with your studies well,” his father begins, eyes looking down as they’re busy on the cutting board. “But I hope you’re also making good friends, too. It’s your last year of high school. It’s important to make memorable memories.”

In his father’s words, Shiro begins to remember the faces of his peers every time they look at him—as they outcast him.

“Yeah, Dad, I get along with everyone at school,” he lied.

“I’m glad to hear that,” his father believed. “Your mother would’ve been proud to hear how well her son is doing.”

Shiro laid his head on the kitchen counter and looked over to the wooden picture frame sitting atop the shelf, the picture of his late mother behind the glass.

✻ ✻ ✻

It’s been two weeks since Momo began accompanying Shiro under the tree during lunch, and even though Shiro hadn’t once exchanged words with him, Momo hadn’t brought up a word either. So, to wonder if Momo was really being a bother to him was something he wasn’t sure of. All he ever does is sit back and look up at the same blue sky. Sometimes, he had a box of juice, a bag of chips, or a piece of toast—sometimes nothing at all. But today, when Momo looked over at the sound of Shiro opening his bento box, he couldn’t hold back the sound of his growling stomach, and Shiro heard it loud and clear.

His criss-crossed legs were now bent to his chest as he buried his face in his knees in what Shiro assumed was embarrassment. Shiro ponders long enough for another growl to emit from Momo, and he looks down at the assorted box prepared by his father.

“… Do … Do you want some?” Shiro offers, and Momo shoots up so fast it makes him flinch. 

“YES—! Please!” 

Shiro places a toothpick in one of the sections and holds the box out toward Momo to take from. Today’s choice was tonkatsu.

Momo’s hand moved without hesitation as he picked up a piece with the toothpick and plopped it into his mouth. He holds his cheeks in a hum of bliss as the food melts in his mouth, and he sings, “It’s been forever since I had home-cooked food. Thank you!”

“… No problem.”

 And in that moment, for the very first time under the shadow of the tree, Momo caught a glimpse of a smile on the face of the school’s infamous White Wolf.