“Her name is Qiluo Tian Gong,” Yuki said.
She wanted to say it; she wanted her mother to know this person’s name, to have that name spoken at the dining table.
She didn't want it categorized as merely “a friend from school,” then filed away with all other unimportant matters.
After she spoke, her heart pounded several beats faster, as if she had done something she shouldn't have.
“Tian Gong,” her mother repeated the surname.
“...Yes.”
“How are her grades?”
Yuki’s fingers paused at the edge of her toast, and that familiar sense of powerlessness welled up again.
She wasn't asked what kind of person Qiluo was, but how her grades were.
Grades, rankings, university acceptance rates.
She had been measured by these words her entire life, and she measured herself by them too.
If Tian Gong's grades weren't good, what would her mother think? Would she give her a passing score?
Or would she frown and say that Yuki needed to make more accomplished friends? Did the “excellence” of a friend also have a measurable standard?
“Her grades are slightly above average,” she said, then unconsciously added, as if explaining and defending, “But she’s a very kind person.”
“Slightly above average,” her mother repeated the four words, her tone devoid of obvious praise or criticism. “What’s her class rank at Tachibana High School?”
“...She didn’t take the ranking exam. She’s a transfer student, and her assessment upon transfer was slightly above average.”
As Yuki spoke, her fingers clenched the fabric on her knees.
She was lying. Qiluo had indeed taken the entrance exam and ranked in the middle of her class.
But she didn’t want to give her mother that specific number, because she knew her mother would use rankings to determine if someone was worth befriending.
And Qiluo shouldn’t be measured that way.
Her mother took a sip from her coffee cup, not pressing further about grades.
She placed the cup back on its saucer, closed her laptop screen, and turned her full attention to Yuki.
This action made Yuki instinctively straighten her back a little.
“Did you bring anything with you when you went out yesterday?” Her mother’s gaze fell on the crossbody bag Yuki had placed next to her chair.
The jellyfish charm hung from the bag’s zipper, its plump, umbrella-like body glowing with a faint pale blue luminescence in the morning light.
“I did,” Yuki said, picking up her crossbody bag and placing it on her lap, her fingers unconsciously brushing the jellyfish charm’s tentacles.
“Is that charm new?”
“...Yes. A souvenir from the aquarium.”
“Things like this don’t help with university admissions,” her mother said, her tone still cold.
Yuki’s fingers tightened around the crossbody bag.
She knew the subtext of her mother’s words: spending time on useless things was less productive than doing more practice questions.
The jellyfish charm was probably seen the same way by her mother.
Seeing it once was enough; why buy it?
Hanging it on her bag was even more wasteful; every extra glance at the jellyfish on the way to school meant one less English word memorized.
In her mother’s world, everything could be weighed on the scale of efficiency, and emotions and memories would never outweigh scores and rankings.
Yuki had always known this rule. And she had always lived by it.
But she didn’t want to follow it anymore.
“...This was given to me by my friend.” She looked up, uttering that word for the first time in front of her mother.
Her mother’s fingers, poised to open the laptop, froze mid-air.
It was only a fraction of a second slower than usual.
“Friend,” she repeated the word, her fingers returning to the keyboard to type.
The cold glow of the screen reflected on her glasses again. “That Tian Gong classmate.”
“Her name is Qiluo Tian Gong,” Yuki pronounced her friend’s full name.
Her mother’s gaze shifted from the screen, landing back on Yuki.
She didn’t speak, just watched her younger daughter.
Yuki didn’t look away.
Compared to meeting her mother’s eyes directly, speaking her true feelings in front of her mother required more courage, and she had just accomplished the latter.
In comparison, maintaining eye contact wasn’t as difficult.
“...You like this friend very much.”
“Very much,” Yuki Kurokawa said, hugging her bag and lowering her head, her fingers unconsciously rubbing the jellyfish charm.
She looked up at her mother again. After admitting it, her heartbeat had actually steadied; the nervousness that had been lodged in her throat had quietly receded at some point.
It turned out that admitting she really liked someone wasn’t as terrifying as she’d imagined.
Her mother didn’t respond. She typed a few more words on the keyboard.
She picked up her coffee cup, only to find it empty.
Ayano Kurokawa stood up, tucking her laptop under her arm.
She paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, not looking back.
“Next time your sister comes home, let her meet your friend too.”
Her tone remained flat, making it impossible to tell if it was approval or if she had other intentions.
Footsteps gradually faded down the wooden floor of the second-story hallway.
Yuki remained seated at the dining table, staring at the now-cold milk in front of her.
“My heart is pounding,” Yuki said, placing her fingers on her chest to check her pulse. “But it’s still pounding now. It’s not fear, though.”
She took her hand from her wrist and placed it on her lap. “My stomach used to hurt after talking to Mother. Not today.”
Yuki Kurokawa returned to her bedroom and closed the door, not walking over immediately.
She leaned against the door for a moment, her palm pressed to her chest, feeling her heartbeat slowly return from its previous rapid pace.
The words she had spoken at the dining table earlier replayed in her mind.
She had admitted to having a friend in front of her mother.
To others, these things might seem trivial, but for her, each one was a first.
Star-trail’s ears twitched, and its nose peeked out from the edge of its tail.
This indicated that Qiluo, on the other side, had turned over.
Yuki walked from the doorway to the bed, her knees pressing against the edge of the mattress.
She leaned over, scooped Star-trail off the pillow, and buried her face in the soft fur on its back.
The silvery-white fur was gently ruffled by her breath, and Star-trail’s tail unconsciously wrapped around her wrist.
“I just told Mother about Qiluo,” she mumbled into Star-trail’s fur, her voice muffled but every word carrying an undiminished joy.
As she spoke, her fingers incessantly rubbed Star-trail’s back.
From the back of its neck all the way to the root of its tail, her movements were haphazard, entirely a release of some unplaceable emotion.
Qiluo Tian Gong, still wrapped in her blanket, was fast asleep and oblivious.
A sensation came from deep within her consciousness.
It was transmitted from Star-trail: first, her nose was pressed into a clump of soft fur.
Then her entire face was pressed against something warm.
Her vision was completely dark, but her sense of touch was incredibly clear: a pair of hands was rubbing her.
Qiluo rolled over in her bedding, pressing her face into the pillow, trying to block the continuous sensations coming from Star-trail.
Yuki Kurokawa’s fingers had changed from rubbing to pinching.
She pinched the soft fur on the inside of Star-trail’s ears, her thumb gently caressing it, as if checking its texture.
She picked Star-trail up, held it in front of her, and looked at it nose-to-nose.
“Don’t you think I’m too excited?” she said to Star-trail, though it was more like talking to herself. “But I really didn’t expect it. I’ve never said so much in front of Mother before.”
Rate on N.U.
