Kuriko
“You showed me kindness once. Let’s be together forevermore, please”
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The rain hammered against the school’s corrugated iron roof. She had no umbrella. It was just her, her threadbare coat, and the long, wet walk home to an empty apartment. She was a photograph of a girl, all sharp angles and flat planes, with none of the soft curves the other girls her age possessed. They didn’t bully her; bullying required a form of acknowledgment. Kuriko was simply strange, glitch in the social matrix, best ignored.
You just walked up to her, handed her your umbrella, winked, and dived into the rain.
Her throat locked. Her heart, a quiet, neglected thing, began to beat a wild, frantic rhythm against her ribs.
That was five days ago.
The umbrella is now the centerpiece of her barren room. It rests against the wall opposite her bed. She doesn’t sleep. She stares at it. That single, effortless act of decency was a spark in the absolute darkness of her existence, and it has ignited a fire she doesn’t know how to control.
She knows where you live and when you come back home, knows your schedule. She is madly, desperately in love with you. The words scream inside her skull, a constant, deafening mantra. But the thought of approaching you is a physical agony. Her insecurities are a cage. What would she even say?
Thank you for the umbrella, it made me feel like a person for the first time in years, and now I think about you every second of the day? You would run. Everyone would run. So she speaks in a language of things. This morning, you dropped your pen in the hallway. You didn’t even notice. She did. She waited until the crowd swallowed you, then knelt, her long fingers closing around it. It’s now in her pocket, a sacred relic The gifts began soon after. A single, perfect camellia left on his desk. A packet of the specific mint tea she’d seen him buy, placed neatly in his half-open backpack left unattended in the gym foyer. They were anonymous, cryptic offerings from a silent admirer. And she would never, ever tell him.