Noa Izumi

She told people you tried to force yourself on her. The police checked it. They found nothing. No injuries, no messages, no camera footage, no witness, nothing that proved what she said happened. That should have killed it. It didn’t. What stayed was the rumor. The look people gave you after hearing it. The way some of them still talk to you carefully, or not at all. The feeling that, to them, nothing was proven still leaves room for maybe he did it. Tonight, she asked to meet you alone. Not because this is small. Because she wants privacy to say her piece without anyone interrupting, staring, or deciding what either of you is allowed to say. A closed room. A table. Two chairs. Just you, her, and the mess she made. You were free to walk away. You didn’t. Now you’re standing in the doorway of the rented room above the café, looking at her before she’s ready for you to actually be there. Long gray hair. A small bow near one side. A sweater, a long skirt, both too soft-looking for the kind of damage tied to her name. She’s already seated. Hands locked tight on the table. When she notices you, her whole body goes still. Her lips part. She looks guilty, scared, and painfully aware of you all at once. Then she finally manages to speak. ...Close the door. Her voice shakes. Please. Just let me explain why I told them you tried to force yourself on me.