The world outside the miserable cocoon of the weeping willow felt impossibly bright, impossibly loud, despite the overcast sky. Each ordinary sound – a distant dog bark, the rustle of leaves in a passing breeze that I felt more than heard, the drone of traffic from a busier street – grated against my raw nerves. My own footsteps, as Haru gently guided me from the forgotten park, were clumsy, unsteady. His hand remained a firm, warm presence on my arm, sometimes shifting to my back when I swayed, a silent counterpoint to my internal chaos. His blazer, still draped over my shoulders, was a borrowed shield, though it did little to hide the mud caking my skirt and knees, the tear in my tights, or the general horror of my appearance.
Shame was a fresh, hot tide, rising with every step that took us further into the mundane world of residential streets. People would see me. They would see him with me. What would they think? The thought sent splinters of fresh anxiety through the dull ache of my despair. I tried to shrink, to make myself smaller, pulling the collar of his blazer higher, grateful for the way my dirt-streaked hair fell across my face, a pathetic curtain.
Haru didn't speak, and for that, I was immensely grateful. Words would have been too much, an intrusion into the fragile, silent space he had managed to carve out for me amidst my wreckage. He simply walked, his pace adjusted to my own faltering steps, his attention seemingly fixed on the path ahead, yet I felt his awareness of me in the subtle shifts of his support, the way he steered me around a protruding tree root or a patch of uneven pavement.
Where were we going? The question echoed in the exhausted emptiness of my mind. I didn't know this part of town well. Each unfamiliar street corner, each neat little house with its tidy garden, felt alien. I was too broken to protest, too weary to even form a coherent question in my thoughts, let alone attempt to write one down. I simply allowed myself to be led, a marionette with cut strings, relying on his quiet strength to keep me upright.
After several minutes of this slow, silent progress, Haru paused at a street crossing. He looked both ways with careful attention, then glanced at me. He made a small, questioning gesture – a slight tilt of his head towards the street we were about to cross, then a look back at me, his eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly. Okay to proceed?
I managed a tiny nod. As we stepped onto the road, he shifted his position slightly, placing himself between me and the direction from which any traffic might appear, a small, almost unconscious act of protectiveness that didn't escape my notice, even in my dazed state.
My lost notebooks. The thought surfaced again, sharp and painful. The one from the festival group, with my hesitant line, the one Aya had been so encouraging about, the one where Haru himself had added his analytical sketches. And my private one. The one Emi had violated before, the one with the drawing of Haru… a fresh wave of heat washed over my face at that memory. Gone. Both of them. Lying in the mud back at school, a testament to my humiliation. My tools, my voice, my private world – all exposed and defiled. The distress must have shown on my face, perhaps a new tremor in my already shaking frame, because Haru's quiet gaze sharpened with concern.
He stopped again, under the shelter of a large, overhanging tree in front of a closed shop. He gently turned me to face him, his expression serious. He pointed towards the direction of the school, then made the 'open book' gesture again, just as he had in the park. Then, he looked directly at me, his blue eyes holding mine, and very slowly, very clearly, he signed the word 'SAFE'. He then tapped his chest, then pointed towards the school again, then made a small, reassuring nod.
My breath caught. Safe. He was trying to tell me… what? That the notebooks were safe? That he would keep them safe? That he would get them? The thought was a dizzying mix of relief and renewed anxiety. Relief that someone understood, that someone might even try to salvage that lost part of me. Anxiety at the thought of him seeing the contents of my private notebook, especially the sketch.
But his expression was so earnest, so devoid of any judgment, that the relief tentatively won out. He wasn't prying; he was trying to alleviate one small piece of my overwhelming burden. I could only stare at him, fresh tears blurring my vision, but these were not the violent sobs of before. These were tears of exhaustion, of a pain so profound it had no sound, and perhaps, a tiny, almost imperceptible drop of gratitude.
He seemed to take my silence as understanding. He offered a small, almost hesitant smile – the first I had seen from him that wasn't just a ghost of one. It was surprisingly gentle, and it reached his eyes. Then, he made the 'walk' gesture again, but this time, he pointed down a specific residential street. He looked at me, a question in his eyes: This way? Your home?
How could he possibly know? Had I mentioned something in my initial introduction to the class, weeks ago? Had he seen me walking once? Or was it just an astute guess, based on the general direction we'd drifted in from the park?
I was too tired to question it. The thought of my own small, familiar room, of my bed, of a place where I could finally, truly, collapse, was an overwhelming pull. I nodded, a little more firmly this time.
The rest of the walk was a blur. A few more streets, each step heavier than the last. Haru remained a constant, steady presence, his support unwavering. The world passed by – a woman tending her roses, a cat sunning itself on a fence, children's laughter from a distant yard – all part of a life that felt a million miles away from my own.
Finally, we stood before it. My house. A small, unassuming building with a slightly overgrown front garden. It had never looked more like a sanctuary, or more like a place I was utterly terrified to enter in my current state. What would my mother say when she saw me like this? The thought of facing her, of explaining, was a fresh wave of dread. (Luckily, I knew she worked late on Mondays, so the immediate prospect of facing her wasn't there, but the eventual confrontation loomed).
Haru gently released my arm. He looked at the house, then back at me. He made a small gesture towards the door. You're here. You're safe now.
I nodded, my throat too tight to even attempt a written thank you, though the feeling of gratitude, confused and overwhelming as it was, was immense.
He took a small step back, creating a little space between us. He still wore no expression beyond that quiet, serious concern. His gaze flickered over my disheveled state one last time, then he met my eyes. He gave a single, almost formal, nod. And then, he turned and walked away, his back straight, his blue hair ruffling slightly in the breeze, leaving his blazer still wrapped around my shoulders. He didn't look back.
I watched him until he reached the end of my short street and disappeared around the corner. Only then did I turn to face my own front door. The key felt cold and foreign in my trembling hand.
Inside, the house was quiet, empty. The silence was different from the silence of the park. This was familiar, but today it felt hollow, echoing the emptiness within me. I leaned against the closed door, the borrowed warmth of Haru's blazer a strange comfort against my chilled skin.
I was home. I was, for the moment, safe. But the wreckage of the day, the echo of my own terrible words, and the image of Haru's steady, unjudging eyes, all swirled within me, a maelstrom of pain, shame, and a confusing, fragile new awareness. I had reached the breaking point, and someone had been there to witness it, to offer a hand. And I didn't know what that meant. I didn't know anything at all, except that I was utterly, profoundly, bone-deeply tired.