THAT ominous darkness, Towada later elucidated, was similar to yet entirely different from the oaties. His explanation of that new kind of ayakashi, those that flitted into and out of existence, was interspersed with apologies as though he believed he was at fault for the encounter. He refuted my every attempt to reassure him of my well-being, until finally, I insisted that I was at least physically fine.
“That’s not true. Your body reacted, didn’t it?” he challenged.
He’d noticed. And indeed, I’d felt oddly out-of-body, my hearing had fizzled out, and a chill had claimed my extremities. The fact that he had picked up on those subtle signs left me flabbergasted. “Well, by the time we were outside, I felt normal again,” I protested.
“It gave up because we distanced ourselves from it. What if you encounter it again when you’re alone and can’t escape? Do you really think you’ll still be fine?”
“I mean…” I couldn’t muster an answer, feeling rather as though I’d forfeited the argument with my lie.
“That was no minor ayakashi. An entity that powerful is bound to draw others, so you can’t risk being alone. Not all of them are benign like the ones you’re familiar with.”
I’d painted myself into a corner and could therefore only acquiesce to his demands. From that day on, Towada would accompany me home in the afternoons—and he would’ve joined me each morning too if I hadn’t wriggled my way out of that suggestion. He had morning practice which made an early escort inconvenient, and besides, I told him, I’d be safe among the throng of students headed to school. The notion of him arriving at my doorstep every morning was just too much. Wasn’t that something couples did? The very idea sent warmth rushing to my cheeks, and I shook my head to banish the thought.
And so, days later, there I was. The winter sunlight streaming in through the library windows cast a warm glow on my back as I sat engrossed in my schoolwork, waiting for the tennis club to wrap up practice so Towada could walk me home. I would’ve been more than okay waiting for him by the shoe lockers, but he argued they weren’t safe due to their proximity to the site of the “appearance.” Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether to be exasperated at his overprotectiveness or grateful for his pains to help me.
I glanced at the clock; he would be done soon. And as if on cue, I heard the library door quietly slide open and Towada enter. I swiftly packed up, then headed to intercept him, trying to avoid the library assistant’s gaze.
As accustomed as I was to our shared commutes, a hint of embarrassment still lingered. Our topics of conversation primarily revolved around three topics: school, oaties, and other ayakashi that Towada could see. Given his taciturn nature, I typically had to steer our chats, which wasn’t my strong suit. But I managed it with Towada, somehow.
“Do you often see ayakashi at school?” I asked that afternoon.
“Not really. That was the first time. I’ve never seen anything besides oaties at Ayako’s house either, so I gather they’re quite territorial or at least nonconfrontational.”
“You mean the oaties are?”
The ayakashi we encountered at school had been starkly different from the oaties, I reflected. Rather than warmth, its presence had oozed apathy and foreboding. I pondered aloud the possible motives of such an ayakashi, and Towada’s response surprised me.
“According to my uncle, they don’t manifest with a particular purpose.”
“Really? Then why do they appear?”
“They show themselves to ‘confirm their own existence.’ For example”—he gestured at a tree next to the sidewalk—“would you say there’s anything in that tree?”
“I…don’t think so?” There were no signs of movement in its evergreen canopy, nor did I hear any chirping.
Approaching the tree, Towada gently shook the trunk—once, twice—and two startled birds flew from the rustling branches.
“Whoa, sparrows—I think.”
“It’s the same as that,” he said, watching the birds flap into the distance.
I stared at him blankly, puzzled.
“Those sparrows weren’t hiding from us just now—we just couldn’t see them.”
“Right.”
“Which you took to mean they weren’t there at all—as if they never existed in the first place. Similarly, some entities need to be acknowledged to affirm their being. They reveal themselves occasionally—just so they can continue to exist.”
His explanation was more metaphysical than I anticipated. I tried to summarize. “So they get lonely is what you’re saying?”
Towada goggled at me as if I’d just said the most outrageous thing in the world. “I don’t think they feel emotions like that, but—I’m sorry, how did you get that from what I said?”
“Well, you said that if they go unnoticed, they fade away. And to avoid that, they seek out contact. That sounds like loneliness to me.”
Was I wrong? What he described seemed to suggest that the ayakashi didn’t like being alone. But judging by the amused arch of Towada’s eyebrow behind his glasses, perhaps I was off the mark. “I think I’m starting to understand why they like you so much…”
A passing truck drowned out his voice. I asked him if he could repeat the rest of what he’d said, but he didn’t oblige.
✦ ✦ ✦
THE following week, I was eating lunch with Honomi when she suddenly emitted an audacious little giggle. “So, what kind of chocolate is Towada getting for Valentine’s?”
“Excuse me?” I replied, dumbfounded.
She paused to select a cherry tomato from her salad, then fixed an intense gaze on me. “You’ve been walking home with him all trimester, and you’ve been to his house, right?”
“Well, yeah—but no, it’s not like that!”
“So have you decided? Store-bought? Homemade? It should be homemade, shouldn’t it? Ah! This is so much fun,” she trilled, seeming to wander off into her own fantasies, her eyes distant.
I shot a look at Mao, pleading for intervention, and she merely offered me a cheeky grin. “You think Towada likes sweets?” she asked. “What are you going to do if he doesn’t? But then again, Valentine’s only comes once a year, so—”
“S-Speaking of, are you giving some to you-know-who?” I said to Honomi.
She immediately deflated. Uh-oh. My attempt at deflection appeared to have worked a little too well. “I’d like to, but he has exams, so…”
“Oh, I see…” I muttered sheepishly. “Um, sorry.”
“But I’ll just have to make up for it at graduation!” she declared, her mood abruptly lightening.
Mao chimed in, “Yep, good luck with your band club tulip thing!”
“Thanks!”
Band club tulip thing?
Nodding gratefully at Mao, Honomi turned to me. “You know how it’s tradition to give flowers to graduating seniors? Well, in band club,” she clarified, “we take that a step further: it is also prime confession time for us.”
In turn, she and Mao explained that the custom, which involved a gift of red tulips alongside the confession, was started years before by an alumnus who’d successfully wooed their crush by doing just that. “In the language of flowers, a red tulip means ‘a confession of love,’ dontcha know?” gushed Honomi, clutching her cheeks in excitement. She was positively glowing—and not just from the sun shining behind her.
“That’s cute. Well, good luck then!” I said.
“Thanks! And good luck to you too!” she replied.
“Um, yeah, anyways—Mao! What are you getting Sakai?”
Mao, mid-drink, violently choked on her milk. As Honomi and I patted her back, she looked up with watery eyes. “Haruka…” she whined.
“S-Sorry! It’s just that Sakai told me he wanted chocolate.”
“F-From you, no?”
Honomi and I shared a glance, then shook our heads. “No, I don’t think so,” I answered.
“Definitely not,” Honomi added. “Mao? Why’s your face so red?”
“Because I just choked, okay?!”
Thus, we learned that lunchtime that Valentine’s Day was a sensitive topic for both Mao and me.