The word friend hung in the air between us, fragile as a soap bubble.
I read the words. Then I read them again.
Another tear fell onto the notebook page, smudging the ink. She quickly wrote underneath: Meeting Komi After School
I didn't reach for her shoe. That would be too much. Too forward. Instead, I reached into my school bag and pulled out a small, battered tin. I opened it, revealing a tiny block of beeswax I used for the slide of my trombone.
She took her pen and wrote one final line in her notebook, then turned it toward me. The word friend hung in the air between
She flinched. Her head snapped up, and her wide, dark eyes met mine. They were pools of pure panic. She looked like a deer that had just realized the hunter was not only there, but had been watching for hours. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Just a small, breathy gasp.
I, Hitohito Tadano, was average. Perfectly, blissfully average. My plan was the same as always: pack my bag with robotic precision, put my headphones on (no music playing, just for the illusion of solitude), and walk the unremarkable fifteen minutes home. Another tear fell onto the notebook page, smudging the ink
Her hands were trembling.