One afternoon, while the elders napped through the shichirin heat, he found me in the garden, pressing my fingers against a moss-covered stone. "It's warm," I said, surprised.
"I'm awake," I replied.
"You've got sap on your cheek," he whispered. Sei ni Mezameru Shojo -Otokotachi to Hito Natsu...
Prologue: The Taste of Cicada Shells
And I am still learning how to fly.
"Everything's warm this time of year," he replied, lighting a cigarette he'd rolled himself. Then, softer: "Including you."
When he wiped it off with his thumb, I felt it—that infamous doki doki they write songs about. But it wasn't sweet. It was raw, like pulling a Band-Aid off too fast. I realized, with a jolt that cracked my sternum, that I wanted him to keep touching me. That I wanted to touch him back. That my body had become a traitor, whispering suggestions my tongue couldn't form. One afternoon, while the elders napped through the
"Do you know why I became an art teacher?" he asked on the last day of summer break. "Because teenagers are the only people still honest about wanting. Adults learn to hide it. You all wear it on your skin like dew."
The chrysalis is empty.