AFTER thanking Ayako for her hospitality, I stepped outside to untie Koro. Once we were all ready, Towada and I set out together. We walked in silence, surrounded by an evening tranquility, a tangible shroud that seemed impossible to penetrate.
Crap.
The silence was deafening. What do boys even like to talk about? I had no idea. My experience was limited to conversations with my older brother, mostly from our shared childhood. Since he started high school and his commute lengthened, we didn’t interact as much anymore.
Summoning my courage, I blurted, “Um, sorry about all this.”
“It’s fine,” he replied. “I had to go buy eggs anyway.”
“But we have midterms tomorrow…”
“I’d still have to go to the grocery store regardless. There aren’t many landmarks here, and the roads can be tricky. It’s not easy to get around.”
“That is true… I’d probably get lost.”
“I got lost too, at first.”
Our dialogue petered out, both of us retreating into the stifling quiet. I couldn’t help but feel that Towada was somewhat awkward himself. He spoke in monotone, and his words came out a little stilted, yet his voice was soft and oddly soothing. He wasn’t like the boys at school who always either teased or ignored us girls. Frankly, I was a bit surprised. Did boys like him even exist? Or was that how they all behaved outside of school?
No matter the answer, it didn’t change the fact that the silence stretching between us was physically uncomfortable. Thank goodness Koro is here with me, I thought. Searching for something, anything to say, I glanced at Towada, my eyes flicking upward. Jeez, he’s tall. Or was I just short? Either way, the difference in our height was striking. He was probably as tall as my brother. I could tell he noticed my gaze because he turned to look at me. Our eyes locked. I swallowed the squeal rising in my throat and mustered a flimsy smile. “Y-Your house is really pretty. It’s like straight out of a picture book.”
“A picture book?” He appeared genuinely confused.
“Y-Yeah. You know, like a place where a gnome or a wizard might live?”
He didn’t reply, just stared at me, his face creased into one big question mark. Oh god, why did I say that?!
I laughed nervously, my face heating. “Not that you’re a gnome or a wizard or anything! I just love houses like that, you know? So much so that I’d like to live in one myself. Oh, not that I’m unhappy with my current house or anything! My dad works really hard to provide for us and I’m very grateful. I even have my own room!” The words tumbled out uncontrollably. “It’s just like, um… That house, it appeals to my inner child, you know what I mean?” Finally managing to rein in my runaway mouth, I looked up at him again. He was still watching me, his brow furrowed even deeper—I could see the wrinkles forming in real time.
Ah, I did it again.
I was the type of conversationalist no one aspired to be. When asked for input, I took ages to frame a response, so by the time I was ready, the discussion had already left me far behind. Or I was the girl who, in a panic, babbled a nonsensical stream of consciousness that seemed to freeze any exchange underway in its tracks. Although nobody ever vocalized their annoyance with me, I could always read the silent judgment in their expressions—that I wasn’t providing the reaction they anticipated was all too obvious. Consequently, I’d carved out a role for myself as a listener. But even in that capacity, I had my weaknesses, awkward silences being chief among them. And my current dilemma was about as awkward and silent as they came. You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Haruka.
That someone like me was able to transfer in halfway through middle school and make the two friends that I did was a minor miracle. I still remember my mother’s reassurance before we moved: “It’s a more rural area. I’m sure the kids there will be less intense,” she’d said. Even though that seemed a rather dismissive assessment of our future neighbors, I’d nonetheless found myself hoping that she was right.
In our old neighborhood, everyone always acted so serious, so driven, and so absorbed in their own lives. Our new home was less than an hour away by train, yet it felt like a completely different universe. Everything seemed more open, less constricting, despite the reality that my life was pretty much the same: school, extracurriculars, cram school, rinse and repeat. I hadn’t hated the people where I used to live, of course, I just felt less out of place elsewhere. That said, I had yet to conquer my shyness or innate awkwardness. Surely, those were the sort of thing that gets better with age, right?
After the previous conversation’s misfire, I didn’t dare start another. I trundled along, mute, until abruptly, Towada pointed to a convenience store cresting into view on the next street corner. “If you follow the street right in front of that store, it’ll lead you to the civic center.”
“The civic center?”
“The large building with the library and the concert hall where all the musical events are held?” he supplied.
“Oh! Right, of course. I know that place.”
The civic center was a multi-purpose hub. It boasted event halls of varying sizes, a small public library, and a branch of the local municipal office. In spite of its utility as a landmark, I’d somehow overlooked it during my walk with Koro. At only two stories tall, it evidently escaped notice. Once there, my house was a short ten minutes away.
I bent toward my dog. “You hear that, Koro? We’re going home!”
The relief and change in energy in my voice must’ve been apparent, because I saw Towada’s eyes widen slightly behind his glasses. His lips followed suit, quirking upward into a subtle smile as a flicker of youthfulness danced across his otherwise solemn visage. That’s the first time he’s smiled all evening….
“Um,” I stammered, astonished, “thanks for bringing me all this way.”
In response to my fumbling gratitude, he nodded and leaned over to pet Koro. “Bye, Koro.”
“Do you like dogs?” I asked, intrigued by the gentle interaction.
“I like all living creatures, whether they’re dogs, cats, or birds,” he answered. “Ayako’s often not home during the day, and as her freeloading nephew, I can’t exactly keep a pet.”
With that, he lifted his hand in a wordless gesture of farewell. I reciprocated, watching as he pivoted in the direction of the grocery store. Then I turned to Koro. “Let’s get going too, shall we? We’re already late enough as is.”
Koro eyed me briefly before breaking into a trot, a newfound spring in his step. Koro was a rescue dog—part Shiba Inu with a delightful, toasted-marshmallow coat that faded into pure white at his paws, his little “socks,” as we fondly called them. He joined our family around the same time we moved. I still recall the day my father unexpectedly brought him home, catching me, my brother, and my mother entirely by surprise. To say that Mom had been furious was an understatement. But I hadn’t minded, not one bit. To me, Koro was a dream come true. I’d always said I wanted a cat or dog once we got out of that company-sponsored apartment.
Koro was fully grown when we adopted him, a creature somewhere between extremely docile and wholly skittish. He seemed to be afraid of just about everything and everyone, and we could only guess the conditions at the animal shelter he came from. Cars and people were an absolute no-go for him, which meant walks were short-lived, stressful ventures, and a trip to a crowded dog park was utterly out of the question. The only place he appeared to feel safe was “his” cushion—a designated cushion to which he always retreated, curling up and making himself as small as possible.