The world narrowed to the damp grass beneath me, the rough texture of Haru's blazer against my skin, and the rhythmic, shuddering gasps that were the remnants of my earlier storm of sobs. His name, spoken so softly, still echoed in the quiet space he had created simply by staying. My confession, "I want to die," felt like a raw, exposed wound, throbbing in the silence. I was acutely aware of him, a steady presence a few feet away, and the shame was a fresh, burning layer on top of the despair. Why wasn't he leaving? Why wasn't he recoiling in disgust or fear?
Time felt syrupy, distorted. My limbs were heavy, unresponsive. The cold from the damp ground was beginning to seep deeper, even through the welcome warmth of his jacket. I was vaguely aware of the distant, muted sounds of the city beyond the park's neglected borders – a car horn, the rumble of a far-off train – all alien to the cocoon of misery I inhabited.
After a while, Haru shifted again, his movements slow, deliberate, as if he were afraid of startling a wild, wounded creature. Which, I supposed, wasn't far from the truth. He leaned forward slightly, and I tensed, but he only picked up the handkerchief I'd dropped, now a sorry, mud-stained rag. He didn't try to offer it back, just tucked it away, out of sight.
Then, he very carefully met my gaze. His blue eyes, usually so placid and unreadable, were now clear windows into a deep, quiet well of concern. He made a small, gentle motion with his hand towards my knee, which was scraped and bleeding sluggishly through a tear in my uniform tights. His eyebrows furrowed slightly in a silent question. Are you hurt badly?
I couldn't find my voice, not even for a mental whisper to form words I could write. My throat was tight, aching. I managed a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of my head. The scrapes stung, my whole body ached from the fall and the violent sobs, but it was nothing compared to the pain inside.
He seemed to understand. He then gestured to my hands, still caked with drying mud and whatever grit they'd found on the ground. His expression softened further. Without a word, he reached for his own school bag, which he'd set down beside him. From it, he pulled out a small, plastic bottle of water and, to my surprise, a small, neatly folded towel that looked like a personal sports towel. Resourceful. Or perhaps just someone who was always prepared.
He unscrewed the water bottle, then looked at me, a clear question in his eyes. When I didn't react, too lost in my haze of misery, he made a small motion of pouring water over his own hand, then gestured to mine. May I?
It was such a simple, practical offer. A small act of cleansing in the midst of so much ugliness. The thought of being touched, even with such gentle intent, sent a shiver of apprehension through me, but the feeling of the drying mud, the grit under my fingernails, was also unbearable. After a long, hesitant moment, I slowly, shakily, extended one hand, palm up.
Haru knelt closer, his movements economical and careful. He poured a little water over my hand, the coolness a slight shock, then used a corner of his towel to gently, painstakingly, wipe away the grime. He was methodical, his touch light but firm, avoiding the raw scrape on my palm as much as possible. He did the same for my other hand, his concentration absolute, as if this small act of cleaning was the most important task in the world.
The silence stretched, filled only with the faint sounds of his ministration and my own ragged breathing, which was slowly, very slowly, beginning to even out. His focused attention was a strange sort of comfort. He wasn't demanding anything, not explanations, not apologies for my state. He was just… helping. Dealing with the immediate, tangible mess.
As he finished with my hands, which now looked scraped but at least clean, a fresh wave of despair washed over me as I remembered. My notebook. My actual notebook, the one from the festival group, with my drawings, my hesitant ideas, the single arcing line that had felt like such a monumental step. It was back there, at the scene of my humiliation, probably ruined, exposed. And the other one, my private one with the sketch of Haru, the one Emi had snatched before – that too was on the ground with my bento. My stomach churned. All my words, my thoughts, just… gone. Defiled.
A small, distressed sound escaped me, and I quickly pressed my lips together, my eyes darting around wildly for a moment as if I could somehow conjure the lost items.
Haru noticed the shift immediately. His hands stilled. He followed my distressed gaze, then looked back at me, his expression questioning. He couldn't know what I was thinking, not specifically, but he could see the fresh wave of pain.
He made a questioning gesture, a slight shrug of his shoulders, hands open. What is it?
I wanted to tell him, to write it, but how? My bag was beside me, but the thought of rummaging for a pen, for paper, of forming words, felt impossible. Instead, I made a small, fluttering gesture with my clean hand, a motion meant to encompass books, writing, things lost. My lip trembled.
Haru watched my hands intently. His brow furrowed in concentration. Then, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly, as if a thought had struck him. He pointed back in the general direction of the school, then made a gesture like an open book, then a sad, questioning look at me.
He understood. Or he was guessing, with startling accuracy. My abandoned notebooks. My scattered school supplies.
I nodded miserably, fresh tears welling. The loss felt immense, another violation.
Haru's expression became very serious. He held up a hand, a gesture for 'wait' or 'stay.' Then, he signed it again, more clearly. It was one of the very first, basic signs one learned in JSL, simple and direct. I stared, surprised by the clarity of the gesture from him. Had he been practicing from a book? From observing me more closely than I realized?
He didn't offer explanations. He simply met my gaze, his own steady and reassuring, then he stood up. He looked down at me, huddled in his too-large blazer, then his gaze swept the dreary park, as if assessing its suitability. He then pointed to me, then to himself, then made a slow walking motion with his fingers. Us. Walk. Then he pointed vaguely away from the school, towards the quiet residential streets bordering the park. That way. A question.
My mind reeled. Leave? Go where? The thought of moving, of being seen by anyone else in my current state, was terrifying. But staying here, in this cold, damp, miserable place, felt equally impossible. And Haru… Haru was waiting, patiently. He wasn't pushing. He was offering a way out of this immediate, desolate spot.
The thought of returning to school was an absolute horror. Home? How could I face my mother like this? But Haru's quiet insistence, his practical care, had chipped away at the very outermost layer of my frozen despair. He was offering… a direction.
Slowly, shakily, I nodded.
His expression didn't change much, but I thought I saw a flicker of relief in his eyes. He offered his hand again, just as before. This time, I took it with less hesitation, my fingers curling around his, seeking the warmth and steadiness he offered.
He helped me to my feet. I swayed, dizzy and weak, my legs unsteady. His grip tightened reassuringly on my hand, his other arm coming up to gently support my elbow, keeping me from stumbling. We stood there for a moment, me leaning on him more than I realized. His blazer, still draped around my shoulders, felt like the only solid thing in a world that had dissolved into chaos and pain.
"Slowly," he murmured, his voice barely audible, his lips close to my ear so I could catch the sound and movement. He pointed again, down the quiet, tree-lined street that led away from the park and, more importantly, away from the school.
And so, we began to walk. Each step was an effort. My body ached, my heart ached, my spirit was in ruins. But beside me, Haru walked, a silent, unwavering presence, his hand a firm, warm anchor in the wreckage of my afternoon. I didn't know where we were going. I didn't know what would happen next. But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I wasn't entirely, utterly alone in the darkness.