The words, "I want to die," hung in the cold, damp air between us, stark and ugly. They were a final, ragged exhalation of all the pain I could no longer contain. Having spoken them aloud, to him, to Haru, a new wave of agonizing shame washed over me, even through the fog of my despair. I squeezed my eyes shut, fresh tears scalding my already raw cheeks, and curled further into myself, wishing the weeping willow's mournful branches could truly swallow me, hide me from his gaze, from the world, from myself.
My sobs continued, broken and hitching, a soundtrack to my utter desolation. I waited for him to leave. Why wouldn't he? I was a wreck, a pathetic, mud-stained creature confessing the unthinkable. I was a burden, a broken toy. People always left.
But the shadow didn't move.
Instead, after a silence that stretched for an eternity, punctuated only by my own gasping breaths, I felt more than saw a subtle shift. Through the slits of my swollen eyelids, I saw Haru slowly, carefully, sink to his knees on the wet grass a few feet away from me. He didn't reach for me, didn't speak. He just knelt there, his blue hair falling forward, partially obscuring his face, but I could see the line of his jaw, tight with an emotion I couldn't name. He wasn't looking directly at me, but rather at the disturbed earth beside me, as if giving me space, not wanting to overwhelm me with his direct gaze.
His stillness was a strange counterpoint to the violent storm raging within me. My body shook, wracked with tremors of cold and grief. The dampness of my ruined uniform seeped into my skin, and the grit of mud on my hands and knees was a constant, abrasive reminder of my humiliation. Each sob felt like it was tearing another piece of me away.
Minutes stretched. He remained. Unwavering.
The intensity of my crying began to subside, not because the pain lessened, but because my body was simply exhausted. The violent sobs softened into ragged, hiccuping gasps. My head throbbed, my throat was raw. I was empty, scoured out.
Slowly, hesitantly, I risked opening my eyes a fraction more. He was still there, a steadfast silhouette against the grey, dreary backdrop of the neglected park and the murky canal. His posture was patient, his hands resting loosely on his knees. He wasn't doing anything, just… being there. Present.
He must have sensed the slight shift in my breathing, the fractional lessening of my distress, because he finally moved again. Very slowly, he reached into the inner pocket of his school blazer. I flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, my mind still screaming with fear of any sudden action. He paused, then continued his movement with even more deliberation, extracting a neatly folded, plain white handkerchief.
He didn't try to wipe my face. He didn't try to touch me. He simply placed the clean, white square on the grass between us, a small, silent offering. Then he looked away again, towards the dark water of the canal, granting me the privacy to accept or ignore it.
My own hands were caked in mud and who knew what else. The thought of touching my face with them was repulsive. After a long moment, my trembling fingers reached out, hesitating just above the handkerchief. It was clean. It was kind. It was an anchor in the swirling chaos. I picked it up. The cotton was soft, cool against my burning skin as I gently, clumsily, dabbed at my eyes, at the tear tracks carving paths through the grime on my cheeks. It came away stained with mud and mascara. More shame.
When I lowered the handkerchief, my gaze met his. This time, he was looking at me, his blue eyes clear, surprisingly gentle, and filled with an unreadable depth of emotion. There was no judgment there, no disgust. Only a profound, quiet concern that seemed to absorb some of the turbulent darkness within me.
He spoke then, his voice incredibly soft, little more than a breath, ensuring his lip movements were slow and clear. "Minami."
Just my name. But the way he said it – it wasn't an accusation, or a question. It was an acknowledgment. I see you. You are here.
I couldn't speak. I could only offer a tiny, jerky nod, the handkerchief clutched in my muddy hand.
He then made a small, careful gesture towards me, then towards a slightly drier patch of grass a little further under the willow's canopy, away from a puddle I hadn't even noticed I was half-sitting in. A simple, questioning tilt of his head accompanied it. Can we move? Just a little?
It was a practical suggestion. A small step. My body ached. I was cold. I nodded again, a minuscule movement.
Haru rose slowly to his feet, then extended a hand, palm up. Not to pull me, not to rush me, but as a steady point if I needed it. I stared at his outstretched hand – clean, strong, offered without any expectation. After what felt like an age, I tentatively reached out with my less muddy hand and brushed my fingertips against his. His fingers closed gently around mine, not pulling, just offering support.
With his help, I managed to push myself up, my knees screaming in protest, my whole body stiff and sore. He supported my arm as I took a few shaky steps to the drier spot, helping me settle onto the grass, which, while still damp, was at least not a puddle. He then surprised me by shrugging off his own school blazer. Before I could react or even process his intention, he gently draped it over my trembling shoulders. It was warm from his body, and it smelled faintly of him – a clean, unobtrusive scent, like fresh air and old books. The unexpected warmth, the sheer, unthinking kindness of the gesture, brought a fresh wave of tears to my eyes, but these were different. Quieter. Less violent.
He sat down again, not too close, but not too far either, just… present. He didn't press me to talk, didn't ask questions. He simply shared the silence with me, a silence that no longer felt entirely empty or terrifying. His presence was a shield against the crushing weight of the world, a steadying hand in the darkness.
The sky above the willow branches was a uniform, unforgiving grey. The air was cold. My problems hadn't vanished. The cruelty of Emi and Rika, the shame, the deep, aching wound within me – it was all still there. But as I sat huddled in the unexpected warmth of Haru's blazer, his unwavering, quiet presence beside me, the raw, jagged edges of my despair felt… infinitesimally softer.
He hadn't fixed anything. He couldn't. But he hadn't run away. He had stayed.
And in that moment, in the desolate quiet of that forgotten park, that felt like everything.