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It's been a month since the accident. She still can't taste anything, makes her mother weep after she shovels her favorite hamburger steak in her mouth without a word.
The first year is always the hardest, the school-mandated therapist tells her. Tamaki Aki hardly hears it, kicking her legs back and forth as she stares at the clock on the wall. Tick, tock, tick, tock it goes. Time is cruel, she realizes, on one of her sessions as she continues to fixate on that piece of cogs and wheels and batteries. Tick, tock, tick, tock, it goes. Every single second carries her farther and farther away from Koharu.
One day, Tamaki Aki will wake up and see an adult woman in the mirror. Will she see Sakurada Koharu beside her, fifteen forever?
Millions of seconds later, she's supposed to have moved on with her life, her father tells her over breakfast. Someday, you won't even be able to remember the specifics of your conversations. This is supposed to be a well-meaning comment, but what do grown-ups know about grief? They can hardly even bring themselves to talk about bringing her to a doctor. Aki leaves the table and is sick all over the toilet.
Her mother yells at her father, but the thought has taken root in Aki. It grows into a thorn, one that's lodged deeper and deeper inside her chest the more she holds on to Koharu.
Approximately 157 million seconds, she calculates over neglected math homework, remembering study sessions spent well into the night; scattered snacks lie abandoned across her desk for her mother to yell at her about later, Koharu's lashes fanning across her cheeks as Aki watches her friend drool all over her notebook.
Her homework has piled up so much that her parents fret that she will be held back for a year. Maybe that's a good thing, remaining first year because Koharu will be always be first year and every year that Aki moves up she'll share less and less things with her best friend-
She had so much time. Why did she wait for so long?
White chrysanthemums turned up on her best friend's desk for three months.
Flowers left by the grateful couples, those who Koharu gave so much of her time and effort to. Asaka and Hiroshi, holding hands in front of her. Asking her to place the vase for them, as if Tamaki Aki is the protector of Sakurada Koharu's memory.
She tries not to look at their interlocked fingers. Under the numbness, the grey that overtook her everyday life and seeped out all the color - the soft pink of cherry blossoms, the fresh pale green of spring; Koharu, ah you took the season with you and left nothing for me - there is an ugly red feeling that she couldn't dare name.
Why these people?
“Place them there yourself,” she says to the most recent pair to walk up to her. Aki has never been the nice one between the two of them. She grabs her belongings off her desk, shoves them into her bag. “I'm not her keeper.”
Koharu had been more the class's than she had ever been Aki's. This is the truth. Giving so much of herself to these juvenile crushes and their silly little relationships. Puppy love that probably wouldn't even last past high school. And for what?
These guys probably won't even grieve for you the way I will. They'll move on to the next best thing, give or take a few months.
Koharu would be disappointed in her, Aki knows. But she's not here to be dismayed at her best friend's lack of empathy, is the problem, isn't it?
That girl is more in love with the concept of love than interested in being loved herself. Isn't it grand, that she didn't even get a slice of the pie she set out for everyone else? Because Aki is too slow, with her horrible timing and lack of consideration for time and place and she's truly the one at fault but it's easier to hate others, to lay the blame at their feet, than to confront that she's the problem-
Easier to be mad at Koharu. Easier to look at the world and spurn her best friend's idealism than to reach inside herself and yank out that ugly pulsating mass of rage, and grief, and regret, and realize that the world will keep fucking turning! The sun will rise every morning and Aki will go to sleep every night, asking herself: why did she choose that moment to tell her?
Why did Koharu look more at these other kids than look at her?
“What are you doing,” she says, flat and monotone. She doesn't recognize this girl with the fluffy hair, standing alone in front of the desk.
The girl smiles faintly at her, inscrutable dark eyes unmoved by her stare. What was her name, again? Some transfer student. Aki can't tell if it was before the accident or after. Time doesn't mean shit to her lately.
“Placing flowers?”
They're not chrysanthemums this time. The delicate white camellias are something new.
Aki scrambles for the meaning, never having been one for hanakotoba, before she gives up. What's more interesting to her is that this girl is all by herself. No starry-eyed girl or boy by her side, no shallow gratitude in those sleepy eyes.
“She was more than just her matchmaking skills,” the nameless classmate says again as she caresses the petals. “Sensei said that she'll remove any new vases soon, since the class needs to move forwards." She eyes Aki's white-knuckled grip on the edge of her desk with mild curiosity. There is no pity in her face, and that's the only thing that keeps Aki from snapping out. "I thought I'd take the opportunity before that happens. You should too, Tamaki-san.”
The next day, the entire class is abuzz over the riot of colors on Sakurada Koharu's desk. Freesias, red spider lilies, yellow tulips, zinnias. One of the girly girls who knows a lot about flower arrangement comments that it's such a bewildering message, as if the sender doesn't know whether they resent or adore Koharu.
Two girls lock eyes across the lively classroom. Kanna, surname unknown, smiles as Aki grips the book of flowers tight under her desk.
In her dreams, it's not blood that stains Koharu's uniform red. In its place are countless red flowers, spilling from the hole left by a piece of rebar. The same bright petals spill from her best friend's lips as she opens her mouth, endless like the grains of sand in the hourglass that Aki took for granted, up until she realized it wasn't so limitless after all.
I can fix this, Aki presses her hands over the hole. Koharu's hand hovers, lonely and ignored in favor of stuffing those red blossoms back where they belong. I can fix this, I can fix this.
Before she died, Koharu had mouthed something to her, lips quickly losing their warmth and color before she even had a chance to experience her first kiss. And Aki doesn't catch it. Doesn't catch it over the static ringing in her ears and the shouts of the useless, useless construction workers and adult bystanders who watch as a high school student's world is torn out from under her feet.
So this time, Aki doesn't take her hands. She presses down on that gaping hole, plucking up the flowers and pushing them back inside. Despite the roughness of her 'first aid', Koharu doesn't wince or cry out.
She simply looks up at Aki with those dreadful kind eyes, lips moving and that same static noise pouring out.
What did she say?
Aki tries to fill in the gaps, to guess, but what's the point of it all, really?
I love you too?
She'd rather that Koharu be alive and with her. Fuck reciprocation, Aki can live with her unrealized and unfulfilled love if it meant waking up to walk to school with Koharu.
If it meant she can watch the sunset paint that face in gold and imagine what it's like to kiss her, if it meant wondering forever, then that's fine? If it gives her more study sessions where she gets to drape a blanket over those small shoulders, sweep those stray locks of hair from that face, and silently shut the study lamp off. If it lets them have more days where she can watch Koharu press an ice-cold can of coffee, fresh from the vending machine, as they both bemoan the heat of summer and Aki watches the stray drops of sweat trickle down that dear face and wonder what it's like to taste the salt of her skin.
I'll take back what I said, okay? You don't have to stand there looking so shocked, now move-!
Or maybe it's something else that Koharu said. Maybe-
I regret pushing you out of the way. Why do only you get to survive, Aki-chan?
Maybe she regrets hearing those words from Aki, being that moment of distraction that cost her everything. This is why Aki needs to fix things, needs to be a better person, needs to stop being so bitter and mad at the rest of the world.
If she becomes as kind as Koharu, to take up the kindness that was snatched from the world before it truly had a chance to shine, would she be forgiven? It's going to be difficult.
She's not a sweet person, she hears that often enough from her father, from her mother's chiding that she needs to temper her personality, be more like Koharu-chan, and she knows that she'll be a shallow substitute.
Six months in, her therapist puts her in art therapy.
To the surprise of many, it actually seems to work. Aki's room quickly fills up with paintings, each canvas a snapshot of their lives before the accident, painted in colors that she chose. Most of the subjects are Koharu, which had her parents murmuring among themselves in consternation more than once until the therapist takes them aside. It wouldn't have stopped Aki, either way: there's a desperation that underlies every brushstroke. A quiet determination to commit that face to a canvas, before her own memory begins to fail her.
Not that it's going to fail easily, since she still has those photos framed on her study desk. But those photos aren't enough, were never enough because Aki remembers better than anyone else what it looks like when Koharu is laughing.
Koharu as she blushes sheepishly under the admiring gazes of their classmates, Koharu in one of her rare pouty moments after her best friend teases her, unaware that Aki is this close to kissing her. Koharu's dark hair and the pink cherry blossoms that fell upon it during hanamatsuri as Aki resolves not to tell her about them. Koharu, Aki's name on her lips as she waits for her after school.
Because her skills are not enough to capture them and give them the justice they deserve, Aki ends up in the afterschool art club.
Hiroshi blinks at her as she introduces herself to the rest of the club members. She feels nothing when Asaka pops up behind him, more surprised than anything that the other girl has taken up painting as a hobby.
It takes weeks before someone approaches her. Despite her new resolve, it's still fresh in everyone's memory that there's an empty spot beside her in the shape of a person. They no longer talk about Koharu, but their eyes still flicker to the side of Aki as if expecting someone there.
"Tamaki-san?"
Her hands still, paintbrush held aloft. "What is it?"
The sound of footsteps, drawing closer to her place in the corner of the classroom. Two familiar faces.
She tenses as they all stand together.
Her canvas as always features their late classmate, this time of Koharu during Tanabata. Aki's having trouble capturing the fireworks just right, making the colors pop against the dark of night while making Koharu stand out just as noticeably. She needs it to be right, needs to remember all those times every year where they walked hand-in-hand, stall to stall.
Didn't Koharu suck at the goldfish catching game? Aki decides that's something for her to paint, later, but first she needs to get better-
"I know what you can do with this," Hiroshi says, soft-spoken as always. He smiles at Aki. "Would you like to paint together with us, Tamaki-san?"
It gets easier to respond, when she has an example to live by. "I'd like that."
She's forgotten what it's like to be held. Her mother and father have done their best, it's not their fault; Aki never takes them up on their offers, looks away from her mother's spread arms to hurry into the silence of her room where her brushes and paints wait for her. After his out-of-touch comments, she hurries past her father rather than sit down with him in the living room to watch TV together.
Her paintings have only grown in number since she joined the club, but no one sees past Aki's growing skill. If they do, they take it as inspirational, as if it's not just Aki vomiting all her feelings onto a canvas and hoping that everything will be okay sooner.
For a while, it works.
And then springtime rolls around, bringing with it all the cherry blossoms and the discussions of hanamatsuri. The shallow, patchwork job she's done with her heart falls apart again. It's worse this time. She stumbles into the new school year with bags under her eyes, barely hidden with a touch of concealer, her lips only having life to them due to a dab of colored gloss.
Why did she call all of Koharu's customers shallow?
Asaka's a surprisingly comfy hugger. She doesn't move when her winter uniform grows damp on one shoulder, her arms a solid anchor around Aki. "We've got you," the taller girl says. "We've got you, Aki-chan."
No one's called her that, since Koharu. But has she ever allowed anyone to get close enough to her for endearments? Aki doesn't know.
Better for them not to be close to her, after the horrid job she's done with Koharu.
Later, as Hiroshi walks into the classroom and presses a ramune bottle into her hands and her eyes have somewhat stopped leaking like a damn faucet, Aki asks a question.
"Why are you so nice to me? I acted like you were nuisances around Ko-" Her throat closes up. She pops the bottle, looking down at the marble floating inside. Once, they had tried to remove it. One marble still remains in Koharu's room, somewhere on her desk, unless it's been thrown out.
Aki hurriedly abandons that train of thought. Taking a long swig of her drink, she savors the cold soda, the faint sweetness on her tongue. Summer's just around the corner. Her first summer without… "Around her."
"Tch, you weren't that bad," Asaka leans forward against the back of her chair. "I kinda was able to tell that everyone was taking away your time with her." She pops her own ramune open.
"I didn't own her time." She can accept this now. "Koharu's time was her own."
Hiroshi adjusts his glasses. "Aki-san. After everything that Koharu-san did for us, we wanted to repay her kindness with kindness. And you needed it more than anyone else."
No one's surprised when she bawls again, moments later. Asaka holds her tight, a solid warmth. It's nothing in comparison to the feeling in her chest, enough to make her dizzy as a mix of love and grief and joy and relief pours out of her eyes and tumbles through her blubbering mouth.
"I can't go on without her…!"
But is there really a without?
Koharu touched people's lives. She's not gone. She's there in the kindness that people pay forward, like the cherry blossoms that spread through the wind in spring. In Asaka and Hiroshi's gentle gazes, the touch of her best friend lingers, only two among the many that got a chance to experience love thanks to a certain girl.
And that's fine. She'll reach far away places, scattered into so many pieces that Aki will see her everywhere. In the wind and in the water, in the freshly fallen snow of winter as people huddle close together for warmth and survive each brand new day together.
"Hamburger steak in the morning? Mother, you're spoiling me." Aki grins as she sits at the table, hearing her mother's laughter spill like golden sunlight and warm honey. She breathes it all in, holding the feeling close to her chest to bolster her for what's to come next.
The first bite of her favorite tastes amazing on her tongue. For the next few minutes, she takes her time to savor her breakfast.
Reaching out to ruffle her hair, her mother crinkles her eyes at the corners. "It's a big day for you, isn't it?" There's a hint of worry in the lines of her face. "You'll call us if you need anything, right, Aki?"
Aki swallows, before she replies. "Yeah, I will." She understands why her mother is worried, but it's going to be fine. Taking one hand into hers, she presses her cheek against her mother's palm. She holds it there for a heartbeat before she lets go. "Thanks, Mom."
After finishing her meal, Aki heads out. Summer break is time to be outside, to complain about the heat as she breaks a twin popsicle and holds out the other half to a friend. But first, she has an agenda. At a certain waiting shed near an intersection, a tall and athletic girl and her bespectacled boyfriend wait. She mustn't take too long, a pep in her step as she passes by other people her age.
No one is alone today, people clustered in groups or pairs. Neither is Aki.
"Ready?" Asaka asks. She's grown even taller, if possible. One would almost think she didn't, since Hiroshi hit a growth spurt recently. The two of them stand at almost the same height, nowadays. "Our first stop's a flower shop, yeah?"
"Yeah." Aki pats her shoulder bag. "I've got the money for a good bouquet."
Hiroshi sighs. It's real weird to see her nerdy classmate out of school uniform. "What do you take us for, Aki-chan? We're pitching in, too." He nudges her shoulder gently. "It's got to be from all three of us."
Chuckling, Aki shakes her head. "About that…"
The bouquet is even more outrageous than the vase Aki once left on Koharu's desk. She had heeded her classmate's requests, but it results in an arrangement without any sense or cohesion to it. Only once she's chosen all of their suggestions does she pick anything out for herself. Violet, zinnia, white egret, forget-me-not.
As she lets Hiroshi pay at the cashier's, she caresses the petals, reminiscing on the year she's had.
"Our classmates can be pretty cool, huh?" Asaka murmurs, not expecting a reply. "Didn't think the class pres and treasurer saved up for this."
Aki laughs, shaking her head. "We couldn't have afforded the out-of-season flowers without their help."
"True, that. Though Mirai probably would have wanted us to be pickier." They both snatch a look at the riot of color between them, and snort. "Yeah, I thought not."
"Koharu would like this better," Aki says. Clumsy earnestness would catch her more than a curated image ever could - Koharu's always been sharper when it comes to understanding the subtleties of other's feelings.
A ridiculous bouquet with everyone's feelings smushed together?
She can imagine the reaction. The blushing, the stuttering, the flustered glimmer in those eyes that would have tempted Aki to tease her more. Or, well, kiss her. What face would Koharu make? She would never know, she could only guess.
A year later, and the torch she carries still hasn't died. It burns, slow and steady, a lighthouse in the dark for Aki to find her way back to.
It still stings sometimes, thinking these thoughts. The what-ifs, all those could-haves. But that's just how it is. You learn to grow around the empty space that someone leaves, you learn to make it a part of you. Maybe she could have timed her confession better, maybe she could have done it sooner.
But these are questions that aren't meant to be answered, and Koharu would fuss over her in the afterlife if she knew the circles that Aki's thoughts would run in - if there is any afterlife.
These are simply the truths that she's learned to live with.
They hit the convenience store next, leaving with cold barley tea, an assortment of snacks comprised of riceballs and shortcake and some of Koharu's favorites. It is a simple trek to the cemetery, afterwards.
Asaka brings the incense. They light three sticks up first.
"Hey, Koharu. I'm sorry I wasn't able to make it for your birthday," Aki begins. "Spring had been… Rough." She feels a weight fall upon her shoulder, Asaka's hand squeezing briefly, and smiles. "You don't have to worry, though. I can imagine the face you're making at me right now. Well, don't."
Her gaze flickers to Asaka, on her right. And then to Hiroshi, on her left. "Do you remember Asaka and Hiroshi? They're here with me, right now."
It's almost nostalgic to watch Hiroshi execute a perfect 90-degree bow. Didn't he bow like that last year, to thank Koharu? "Hello, Sakurada-san. We came with Tamaki-san today to talk to you and hang out. I hope that we're not intruding…"
That night, she dreams of Koharu. For once, there's no red petals fluttering in droves from her stomach and her mouth. Her mind has stopped trying to bargain; blood drips freely from the corner of that chin, spreads and unfurls like flowers in the fabric of that uniform. With how many times Aki has run the scene through in her head, this hardly fazes her.
"I like you," Aki says again, more than a year later since she first said those words. They still ring true. She doesn't know if there's an end to it. "I have, for a long time now."
Since middle school, or perhaps even earlier, she's been in love. It occurs to Aki that she'll love Koharu for far longer than they'll ever know each other. "You had no idea, but I could have said something instead of relying on your intuition. I'm sorry for teasing you about that." She laughs, warmth suffusing her cheeks. "But you were just so cute even when you had no idea."
Koharu takes a step closer. Aki meets her halfway, hand coming up to grasp hers. She entwines their fingers the way she's seen Asaka and Hiroshi do, draws her ever nearer.
"I think I was afraid," Aki confesses, lowering her lips by Koharu's ear. Despite the blood that flows ever on and on from Koharu's wound, the dream is kind and lets her cheeks and ears flush red like she never bled out on that afternoon back in 2019. "I'm a pretty lame and selfish person, Koharu. It didn't seem fair to put all that on you."
She watches those lips move. Even now, she can't guess at Koharu's last words.
So Aki doesn't try. She instead tilts Koharu's face up, drinks in her blushing cheeks and shining eyes. The blood on her lips tastes more like salty tears than copper, her shocked breath mingling with the sob half-caught in Aki's throat. It takes a moment, but shaking fingers reach up to tangle in her hair, far bolder than Koharu would have been.
Their first kiss happens in the land of dreams, where all the could-haves and what-ifs are allowed to flourish in a world much kinder than reality.
Tamaki Aki wakes up.
She rises with the sun, grabbing her paints and her brushes first thing in the morning, and gets right to work. And for the first time, the subject of her painting isn't Sakurada Koharu.