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Akiyama Mizuki hated being alone.
It was weird, to be honest. The way their mind slowly ate away at itself over the night, spreading through the darkest corners of their mind. Diffusing through the fog of their sick brain, taking them over, teaching them all of their most deeply hidden insecurities - Which, well, Mizuki was full of secrets. They sort of despised the concept of laying their soul bare, allowing themself to play the neutral role, to keep a smile on their face though all the shit. They were mature. They were lighthearted. They were the peacekeeper.
And they’ve always behaved this way, since the age of waddling through the playground after lunch, dirtying their knees of their uniform pants while searching for frogs in the grass after the rain. A boy pushed another boy down and yanked a toy out of his hand, and Mizuki had ran over, leaving a small hole behind in the dirt.
They did not shove, did not yell, did not hit. “You don’t need to be mean,” Mizuki had told the more aggressive of the boys, simply enough.
But when you’re a little kid, you sort of fall into this box of what your parents expect for you. If you’re taught to shout, you shout; if you’re taught to cry, you cry. Mizuki was taught to behave. Mizuki was taught to stay in place, to be respectful, to jump in between when fights sparked up. Mizuki was taught to blow through the punches, through the things that hurt, and to smile despite the scars and the pain.
Mizuki heard everything ; every fight, every conflict, every punch, every shout. Mizuki was not taught about secrets.
But another thing about this all; about growing up, out of the weird shackles of childhood, is that this tiny box you perfectly fit in as a little kid starts to grow too tight. By eleven, Mizuki can feel the way it constricts around them; in the firmness of their hips, the flatness of their chest. The girls their age are wearing sports bras, and the boys their age wear basketball shorts and boxers, and Mizuki doesn’t really know what they want. They just know they hate the way their shirts fit, and they hate how short their hair is, and they hate that everything makes less and less sense as they grow up - as they must learn how to become an individual person, rather than that strange, babyish amalgamation of their parents.
By thirteen, all those little secrets, all the jagged edges of Mizuki… they all spill over the edges. That box tears, just a little, but enough for the too-much pieces of Mizuki to rush out.
At fourteen, they find themself in their older sister’s closet when nobody is home, trying on all of her pretty skirts and pink shirts. At fourteen - a little later that year - they find themself buying makeup at the mall, sheepishly blushing and lying that it was a gift for their sister; not that the cashier really seemed to care, as he’d just hummed and nodded in response, continuing to ring up Mizuki’s items. It’s also at fourteen when their sister comes home earlier than they expected, walking into their bedroom to ask them some question they’d never gotten to hear, catching them taking selfies with pink lips and a stolen mini-skirt on.
Mizuki remembers the feeling of raw fear in the pit of their gut, stirring deeply there; but Mizuki’s sister is not cruel or uncomfortable at all. She just smiles, helps Mizuki fix their lipstick, and tells them that the skirt looks better on them than it does on her. That was a strange feeling, for Mizuki. For the first moment in their life, they feel like these weird pieces of them are real . These pieces they thought they could hide, allowing to course beneath their veins in secret, as if it were never there.
That moment sparked relief; relief that their sister hadn’t hated them forever, relief that these feelings maybe weren’t so utterly bizarre. But that moment sparked fear just as much - if not more. Because that meant that this weird, angry vine of sick, twisted emotion existed outside of just their own bubble. Their life could go any direction, and the world could shift in any way, and their views could alter entirely with age, and it could all be a phase and it would still exist in someone’s mind outside of their own.
It’s entirely different to understand something about yourself than to admit it aloud; to let others know about it, too. Mizuki had hardly been able to sleep for a solid week after that incident, always afraid that their sister would change her mind, would decide that something really was wrong with them. They weren’t sure which was scarier; the secret, or the brief glimpse of honesty.
They’re fifteen when they finally tell their parents about… whatever this is.
“I don’t want to be a boy,” Mizuki remembers saying, clinging to the denim of their too-tight jeans, suffocating them in the silence of their room. “I don’t think I want to be a girl, either. I just want to be me.”
Mizuki remembers the rest vague; begging their parents for something - permission, maybe. Or maybe acceptance. They were going off to high school, and things were so weird, and they were allowed to change if that’s what they wanted. Everyone changed in high school! And Mizuki knew that kids weren’t always the kindest, that they would say mean things towards them, but it still hurt when their mother told them this. It hurt… but it felt good, too. It wasn’t a no, it wasn’t an insult, it wasn’t a banishment or a punishment. It was a simple concern. Mizuki had curled their knees up to their chest, holding them there as they sat in silence for a moment. “I’m so scared either way,” Mizuki had whispered, feeling that strange feeling that arises in the back of your throat when you’re about to cry; warning them not to speak any further, “I’d rather know the people around me won’t leave me once this secret comes out.”
“But you can hide it,” They remember their mother scrambling to say, tears on the brink of her voice, “You can hide it, and nobody can really figure out then, right? As long as you just keep it to yourself…”
Mizuki breaks out into a sob, then. Harsh, tearing from their chest in such sudden intensity that they flinch a little bit, gasping for air around the edges of it all. “I can’t,” Mizuki sobs out, “I’m so sorry, I can’t.”
Mizuki’s mother cried alongside them, tears drenching their hair, wrapping her arms around their child as the version of them she’d known faded out of her grasp. And Mizuki melted there, tears streaming down their face, burning tracks in their path, staining them to the core. Mizuki doesn’t remember when they stopped crying; sometimes, looking back on that memory years later, it felt almost as if it had never ended. An endless loop continuing on, something Mizuki can see in a glimpse at the edge of their vision when they catch that expression on their mother’s face, at times.
Still, life goes on; that weird way it does sometimes, where it surges beneath you like waves, pushing you ahead several overwhelming moments and then leaving you a brief lapse of calm, almost boringly so. Things are always too much or too little, and it’s times like this - which, really, is all the time - that Mizuki feels almost as if they are just in a perpetual state of disarray. They cannot be content with the storms or the clear skies, with the waves or the calm seas, with the catastrophe or the breath of peace. But once in a while, just for a single moment where the sun beats warm against their pale skin, they feel that strange twinge of nostalgic bliss; something they felt they had left behind back in the elementary days, before they knew too much about themself - and subsequently, not enough.
It’s weird, the way this feeling of true contentment seems to increase tenfold after they meet Shinonome Ena.
They are fifteen when they go into high school; and it sort of towers over them, the intensity of it all, the weight of growing up and getting older. They’re wearing the uniform with the skirt and the tights, and they feel almost as if they are laid bare and open; like the deepest center of their being is suddenly pulled to the surface. There’s a bow in their pale pink, shoulder-length hair; all flowy and loose, falling in such an unfamiliar way. It’s strange, this weird mix of comfort and entire lack of it. Because they feel so authentic, and they like the way all of it fits their skin; and they’d felt so beautiful when they looked in the mirror, something they hadn’t been entirely sure that they wanted until now.
But, all the same, so few people had seen this version of Mizuki. Now, here they were; an open livewire of authenticity on display, almost dangerously so. They remember the slight reluctance in the administrator’s expression when Mizuki and their mother had discussed Mizuki wearing the girl’s uniform this year. The way the staff had awkwardly floundered between pronouns, ultimately giving a desperate attempt to avoid them entirely the farther the discussion went on. They complied, though; and Mizuki felt as if their mother hadn’t even noticed the weird weight of their words, their tones, their stares…
Mizuki had walked through the large, paned doors with slow, almost painful steps. They pulled their blue plaid skirt lower on their legs as a pang of insecurity left them self-conscious, wanting to hide more beneath these pieces of fabric. To make themself so hidden by the artificial decorations, so buried beneath them, that not even their own name could spark memory of their true identity.
( True identity. That term felt so wrong. Even beneath all this decoration, all these dreams to be something beautiful, solely so… were they still ugly to the core? Something they entirely despised to be? )
Maybe Mizuki got lucky, but really, as more time stretched on… it seemed nobody noticed a thing. They’d self-consciously studied their surroundings, searching for those expected, judgeful eyes… and nothing came about.
That familiar mix of comfort and lack thereof stirred deep in Mizuki’s core yet again. Because nobody cared; nobody cared about the lipstick carefully spread along their lips, or the new length to their hair, or the pink bow on their collar. Nobody cared… and that meant nobody remembered Mizuki. The only exception seemed to be Kamishiro Rui, who had seen them in fifth period and whistled, sauntering over to their desk before the period started.
Mizuki had looked up to him with almost fearful eyes, but they were brought to ease when Rui just went on some winded monologue about Mizuki’s new appearance that seemingly translated to: “You look good.” Mizuki had blushed, filled with a peculiar sense of overstimulation at the new recognition, tucking their hair behind their ear and turning their sight down to the wooden desk. Rui had sat next to Mizuki, further proving his comfort around them despite this new change. Over the course of the period, Mizuki could feel that tension fading from their shoulders.
And that week went well . Mizuki had made friends with someone named Shiraishi An in one of their classes, had continued rekindling their middle-school friendship with Rui, had slowly became more and more comfortable in the way that their clothing fit them. The way that they looked; the way that they were perceived. They were cute, they were pretty, they were feminine.
And then, Tuesday of the second week of high school, Mizuki overheard their name - “Did you see what Mizuki looked like in middle school?” and “Yea, what a weirdo,” and… Mizuki’s footsteps picked up, the prickling of stares leaving their skin hot and tingly; leaving a sting of tears behind their eyes, burning them to the core of their being. They feel so strange; a creature on display, something sick and ugly, something for people to gawk at and laugh at and judge - and Mizuki doesn’t cry, but they heave a shaky inhale as they walk.
Shiraishi An does not see Mizuki in class for the rest of the week. When she texts her new friend to ask what’s wrong, if they need any soup or medicine brought to their house, Mizuki just tells her it was a little family emergency.
When Mizuki shows up to school again that next Monday, they’re wearing a bright pink sweater over their school blouse, pink false eyelashes over their eyes, and several rings on their fingers - ( Hiding more of themself beneath the surface, behind all the distracting decorations. )
An tells them that they look good, smiling all sweetly, tapping one of their star-shaped rings and then pointing at the clip in her hair and claiming they match. Mizuki doesn’t entirely respond, just giving a sheepish laugh before turning back to the textbook on their table.
It isn’t until week 3 of school that Mizuki and Ena meet. Mizuki had been about to leave at the end of the day - after staying a couple minutes late to discuss their late attendance and make-up work with their Algebra I teacher. The halls were majorly empty, a blank liminal space that only existed when you’re pulled from the class halfway through the lesson or heading home late after an extracurricular activity.
Then, a brown-haired girl pushes through the door; her eyes are round and she’s a couple inches shorter than Mizuki and she’s wearing a cute sweater that Mizuki kind of wants in their own closet. She’s looking down at her phone, seemingly typing out a message or something of that sort, and it isn’t until Mizuki hears the sound of a message being sent that the unfamiliar girl looks up and meets Mizuki’s curious stare.
“Oh!” She says when she notices Mizuki looking at her, a light and sweet sounding voice that makes Mizuki’s chest clench a little, “Hi. I’m from the night classes here.” She clutches her phone close to her chest, a motion that doesn’t really seem to have any significance, but Mizuki says nothing about it. The girl seems awkward beneath Mizuki’s gaze, and if they were anyone else they might feel guilty for making the girl feel expected to speak.
“Ah, I see,” Mizuki responds, a smile on their face, that playful edge to their tone; something beneath the surface stings selfishly with the reminder that this person will likely never know the truth to Mizuki. She’ll never hear the whispers in the hallways, the things that feel like rumors but are far too painfully true. “A little early for night classes, isn’t it?”
“I forgot my paintbrushes last night,” The girl says, rolling her eyes a little, and Mizuki laughs at that. Her eyes even widen a bit, seemingly shocked by her own attitude towards the stranger, but she doesn’t apologize. “Actually, shit, do you know where Ms. Yamagata’s classroom is? Room 200… 204? Maybe?”
Mizuki thinks for a moment, and then remembers walking with Rui when he was heading to her class. She’s one of the art related teachers, Mizuki thinks. “I got ya! Room 202!” Mizuki turns on their heel, heading towards the direction of Ms. Yamagata’s room. They can hear the click of Ena running a little bit to keep up, until they are side-by-side, step-in-step. A brief moment of silence lays between them, but Mizuki is never fond of the silence, so they speak up; “My name’s Mizuki, by the way!”
“Mizuki,” Ena repeats, a little bit quiet, as if testing the name out. Mizuki doesn’t think their name is that hard to say or to remember, but they don’t comment on it. “I’m Ena.”
“Of course your name’s Ena,” Mizuki giggles lightly, mostly just trying to keep the conversation on a steady flow - although, the name does truly suit the girl in some way that Mizuki feels their own name could never suit themself.
The girl glares, unbeknownst to Mizuki, who has focused their sight ahead at the classroom at the end of the hallway. Room 202. “What is that supposed to mean, Mizuki ?”
“Woah, woah, so defensive,” Mizuki cooes, a sense of comfort settling in the conversation… on their end, at the very least. Still, they feel like Ena doesn’t mind the lighthearted argument so much, either - given the fact that the numbers clearly had a pattern, and Mizuki had clearly stated that Yamagata was in room 202. Ena could break away easily, if that’s what she desired. “I’m just saying! It’s a cute name!”
Ena’s face goes red, rather with annoyance or embarrassment, Mizuki cannot tell. “Are you calling me cute?” Ena asks, a little more anger in her voice than there probably should be for such a statement. But Mizuki does not respond, just turning around with a coy grin before motioning to the classroom they were now next to - Room 202.
Ena stands still for a moment, glancing to the door and then back to Mizuki and then back to the door again. She huffs, then, and heads towards the door. “See ya, Ena!” Mizuki calls over their shoulder as they start to walk back towards the exit, a grin on their face.
“Bye, Mizuki,” Ena responds, quiet and almost embarrassed as she opens the door to the classroom. Mizuki can hear, then, the faint sound of Ena greeting the teacher - but Mizuki just laughs softly to herself at the sudden politeness in the girl’s tone as they walk off.
That night, weirdly enough, Mizuki is getting themself dressed for bed when they see their phone light up with a notification.
Instagram @04Ena has followed you!
Mizuki breathes out a laugh, following her back and opening their empty DM’s to send a message - because that’s just who Mizuki is, always happy to start a new conversation, make a new companion when given the chance. “You found me on Instagram already??? Stalker! XD”
Five minutes later, as Mizuki is settling under their covers, they get a, “My brother’s friend follows you, idiot.”
Mizuki laughs softly into their pillow, sending back a sarcastic “Sure…” before plopping their phone face-down on the mattress next to them and falling asleep.
( They do not wake up to a notification, mostly because Ena typed and deleted about five separate messages before ultimately giving up. But that’s okay. Mizuki wasn’t really expecting one, anyway. )
And time lapses on like this, all the same. Growing up, growing older, hiding more of themselves behind shiny and bright things until all of the clutter is enough to drown them out. And sometimes it hits, sometimes it hurts , when Mizuki is walking through the halls and hears somebody call them a he , a boy , and they have to deal with the fact that it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.
But sometimes, even in the wrong, the pain, the moments where the world collapses around you in shattering lapses - there’s a glimpse of something good. A glimpse of something authentic, something that you find yourself craving. And sometimes, you can grasp for things like these even as they melt through the cracks in your hands. Mizuki holds it all like water, knowing nothing is permanent, and knowing that Mizuki can never grasp tight enough that they will be able to keep anything forever. Not like this.
But, still, life finds ways to be kind. Just for a moment. Or, maybe not kind - not always - but to keep rolling on. To allow you to keep something just a while longer. To save whatever feels as if it’s leaving your grasp.
Mizuki grows, and Mizuki learns that beauty is not synonymous with kindness. The world can hurt, can burn in chaos, and there will still be glimpses of it. Of beauty.
Like when Shiraishi An overhears people talking about Mizuki and socks one of them in the face. She’d had the nerve to grin over at Mizuki when they grabbed her arm - telling her she was probably going to go to detention - and to say, “Worth it!”
Or like when Mizuki had been crying in their bathtub, the general stresses of their life piling up until they felt as if they couldn’t stand, and then Ena had sent some little comic of two girls talking about fashion or cute clothes or something of the like - Mizuki can’t remember the details, just the feeling, when they’d read the text that went alongside of it. “this is us!!!!!”
And, really, it’s not kindness that makes life worth living. It’s not happiness. It’s moments like these. Moments where chaos eats you up, leaves you opened and raw, and people still care. People see you, all skin and bones, all ugly and vulnerable and torn up, and they still love you. And Mizuki almost forgets, for a second, that what they are beneath isn’t something of nuance. This isn’t a bad hair day or an anger problem. This is real ugly, the kind writhes like slugs and snakes in the pit of their stomach.
This isn’t an ugly that people can overlook. This is the type of secret that kills. And, when this thought blossoms during a discussion with An or - God forbid - Ena, it terrifies Mizuki to no end.
Over the course of time, Mizuki learns everything reacts one of two ways; they entangle their roots deeper, becoming stronger and more vital and heavily attached around just about every end… or they erode away. It’s like how a swarm of vines may gather along the side of a house over weeks and months and years, but a balloon full of helium will slowly deflate until it is flat on the ground, nothing of it’s former self but an empty shell.
As for Mizuki-and-Ena, Mizuki thinks their relationship does not follow the same rules.
Their friendship builds as the months pass, as the messages between them become more frequent, as the visits they share to the mall or breakfast shops increase tenfold. Mizuki has went their entire life holding people at arms reach - close enough to appease them of their curiosities, but far enough that Mizuki is but a blur. People make out the shapes they want to see, the shapes they expect, until it seems the picture is entirely there. Mizuki is not sure what Ena expects of them, at times; and they fear what Ena would find if she managed to get a closer look.
Despite it all, Ena makes them laugh. She’s someone who exists so unabashedly, everywhere she goes - refusing to be shackled by expectations or hyperboles or simple terms. Ena seems to exceed language, in some sort of way. Mizuki could ramble about the girl for hours - God knows, they could - and yet not a single word nor a million could truly pin down just who Ena was. Ena would profusely shake her head and reassure the waiters when they apologized for taking so long even if they took hours to bring her so much as a drink, but she also would dig her nails into her palm in irritation if her brother asked what she was drawing. She would clutter Instagram with dozens of pictures of her face - which, Mizuki would too, if they looked like that - but refuses to share even her most beautiful pieces of artwork.
And, as time goes on, Mizuki finds that they love it - every little, last drop of contradiction that Shinonome Ena is molded from.
Mizuki has never felt like the most secure person, in both their appearance and their general behavior, but Ena is their best friend and… they think they might be Ena’s best friend, too. It’s nice, like this; to have someone to keep you company when you’re feeling as if dismay overcomes you, as if there is nothing you can say or do that will ever mean anything. Mizuki feels like this a lot; when they cannot stop arguments, when they do not get a text back, when nobody really cares about the consecutive days they disappear from school. In a way, Mizuki knows it’s their fault - they’re the one who had been too afraid to really make any genuine friendships, especially in an environment where it feels as if it is a minefield; where speaking to anyone can explode in your face and leave you as good as dead.
But, still. It feels nice to have someone overcome the bad, anti-social moments in Mizuki, where they hide away just to see if someone knocks on their door - until it starts to become less of an experiment to see if your friends care, and more of a realization. Mizuki remembers locking themself away, laying in their bedroom, and praying for someone to save them. Because the truth is, hopelessness like this can feel less like Mizuki’s own conscious choice and more like an abduction. Mizuki holds themself hostage in their own home, weeks at a time, and comes crawling out when nobody even bothers to save them.
It’s weird, when Mizuki decides to disappear and almost immediately gets a message. They’re not sure why they ignore it, but they do; rotting away on their mattress for another lonely day. When they wake up, they have two more messages - and by that evening, there’s three more. They wake up at 2 in the morning to a call, a voicemail… and then, after the second call, they finally answer. Their eyes are droopy with sleep as they press their headphones into their ears, falling against their own pillow as Ena’s voice rings through.
“What the hell!” Ena’s voice says, “Any reason why you went MIA for, like, a whole two days?! I texted you a bajillion times!”
Mizuki, yawning into their sleeve, mumbles, “What?”
“What do you mean what ? You ignored my messages all day! And I know you’re always on your phone, so it’s not like you didn’t see my texts!” A silence laps, one where Mizuki feels as though they’re expected to say something, but they can’t find the words they’re expected to say - especially with the heavy fog of broken sleep settling around them. “So…?” Ena continues, when nothing is said.
“So what?” Mizuki responds, intelligently. Ena scoffs lightly, audio crackling through the phone as if she is walking.
“So… what’s wrong?” Ena says, voice suddenly free of anger, entirely genuine. The way she says it is as if this entire conversation, every annoyed sentence falling from Ena’s mouth, was an expression of concern . She wasn’t frustrated over being ignored, or mad that Mizuki wasn’t keeping her company. She was asking if something was wrong… in her own little Ena way.
Mizuki is struck through the heart by it all; by how purely Ena this behavior is, by the fact that someone worries enough about them to call at two in the morning despite the fact that Mizuki might have been angry. By the fact that Ena cares this much about Mizuki - that they are willing to push past these walls, this potential frustration or anger, just to make sure that they are by Mizuki’s side if they are hurt. And… well, Ena is a better person than Mizuki, they realize, laying in the comfort of their bed with their best friend on the other side of the line. Because they could never do this. They’re so used to keeping everyone at arms reach, to behaving, to carefully treading with kind smiles and gentle remarks. They run into themself trying to hide away when someone shows any sort of disappointment in them, any sort of annoyance toward them.
Maybe Mizuki is selfish for worrying more about being behaved and appreciated, or maybe Ena is the selfish one for ignoring how her actions may be annoying for the peace of her own mind. Or maybe everyone is a little selfish, and maybe this isn’t a bad thing - because maybe, in the end, certain types of selfishness all circle around to your care for others.
Maybe, just maybe, Mizuki thinks too much.
( Mizuki ends up teasing Ena, and they argue lightheartedly, but Ena eases up as she senses the life return to Mizuki’s voice. Ena swears that she’ll show up at their house at 5 AM if they ever do that again, and Mizuki doesn’t even bother to pretend to be appalled by that idea. They fall asleep to the sound of Ena’s rambling in their ears; but when they wake up that morning, the call has already ended, and there is a message sent from Ena at 4:36 AM: “goodnight <333” )
At sixteen years old, Mizuki realizes something about themself. Maybe it’s existed beneath the surface all along, just hardly visible beneath the thick of their skin; beneath the rings and bows and sweaters and skirts, all the pretty things that adorn them. Maybe they’d see it sometime, only when they are alone and allowed to be bare. Maybe, sometimes, you don’t see things about yourself because you are too afraid to learn more; to allow the flesh on your body to truly form, to exist outside of a corporeal state. But maybe this thing only now reared it’s head; maybe it was floating through the air, invisible and searching before it settles upon Mizuki in the crowded shop where Ena sips her iced latte, waiting for their pancakes to be served.
Mizuki doesn’t think it matters; where this all came from, why it existed. It certainly doesn’t matter in the moment; not as Ena scoops a bit of her whipped cream on her finger and raises it to her mouth. She’s wearing her beige sweater that’s a couple sizes too big and strawberry-pink lipgloss, and she’s not looking at Mizuki, but they’re looking at her. It strikes, like lightning through Mizuki’s veins - they want to kiss her.
Everything rears to a stop, leaving Mizuki gutterally empty, mind flung back to their most primitive state. It reminds them almost of those scenes in movies, with car-wrecks or plane crashes, when everything jerks and the audio rings and the visuals go all bright and blurry. Except, it’s real-life too; with all the real-life senses. The smell of cinnamon and berries and pancake batter through the entire restaurant, the sensation of their own hands trembling and their heart pumping behind their ears, the aftertaste of their own coffee on their tongue.
Ena is entirely naive to the entire trainwreck going on in Mizuki’s mind, their brain sending alarms to practically every inch of their body. A moment stretches on for longer than one should be, and then Ena looks up and catches Mizuki’s eyes on her, and her wide-eyed gaze kickstarts Mizuki’s heart. I think I’m in love with you, a little bit, they do not say, but it lays on the tip of their tongue, rendering them entirely silent.
“What?” Ena asks when Mizuki says nothing to clarify their own staring, and Mizuki allows themself just another two seconds of silence, frozen not in time but certainly in place, before they blink their eyes firmly. The feeling does not fade, but the immediate sense of shellshock does; mists off into something quieter, like a whisper in the back of their head.
“You’re gonna fill yourself up on whipped cream, Ena,” Mizuki cooes teasingly, slowly grappling onto a sense of normalcy. It’s weird, the way they flounder for the right words to say until they grasp ahold - and they find, in terms of just… existing with this knowledge… it’s not so difficult, after all.
“Wh-… You’re ridiculous! It’s just whipped cream!” Ena shouts, maybe a little too loud for the restaurant, but there’s nobody near them and Mizuki can’t resist getting Ena riled up… seeing the cute flush of anger spreading across her face.
“And you’re just Ena,” Mizuki responds, tapping Ena on the nose gently, a grin on their face. Ena crosses her arms, offended, asking what that’s supposed to mean, but Mizuki just giggles into their palm. For a moment, just a moment, Mizuki allows themself to pretend nothing changed - that loving Ena just meant loving Ena .
It’s only at ten PM, in the security of their own bathroom as they wash the makeup off of their face, that they allow their mind to stray. And it happens tentatively, at first; a nibble before the bite, a touch before the grasp.
Mizuki thinks about Ena; her face, her smile, her laugh, her exaggerated frustration. Mizuki thinks about loving Ena. The touch.
Mizuki thinks about themself; always in between. Not a boy. Not a girl. Mizuki thinks about words like gay and straight - ( The grasp, the desperate grasp, but- ) but what do those words mean to someone like Mizuki? To someone who loves a girl - has only ever loved girls - but can never be one themself? Mizuki doesn’t want to be a girl, they don’t think they do, at least… but this thought suddenly leaves a bad taste in their mouth.
They meet their own eyes in the mirror, hair down and falling over their own shoulders, face bare of makeup… and they find that the reflection staring back at them reminds them of what they will never be. Something stirs in their stomach deeper than nausea can reach.
Mizuki dries their face with a towel, avoids eye-contact with the mirror, and ducks out of the bathroom and into their bedroom. They had sat at their desk for a while, hands hovering over the keyboard; but it’s one of those moments. Those moments where Mizuki is allowed to think, allowed to let their mind drift as far as it pleases, to the fantasy lands and back… But the second they allow this thought to drift outside of their mind it becomes too real to handle anymore. Mizuki realizes, in this moment, that this much does not just extend to admittance to others; to putting a voice behind these thoughts.
Sometimes, even so much as opening an incognito tab and searching on Google can be an admittance. Sometimes, even this much can be too much.
They wish they had some sort of explanation, some sort of understanding of why things feel like this , why guilt nitpicks the strangest parts of Mizuki’s existence. But there’s a certain fear in searching for answers, too. Because what happens if you find nothing? What happens when you’re the only one like this?
( Mizuki’s mind flashes the familiar whispers in the halls - “Freak,” “Weirdo,”... that’s what happens. To be alone is to be isolated. To be alone is, simply enough, to be strange . )
In the end, Mizuki stares at their monitor until the screen goes black, and then they abandon their computer desk and settle themself into bed. The temptation to know argues with the fear of all-too-familiar isolation, until they swirl up and form mist in the exhaustion of Mizuki’s mind.
At sixteen years old, Mizuki realizes that being sixteen is like being on a roller coaster, except you think you’re off the roller coaster and then all the sudden everything is moving beneath you again, and again, and again. Mizuki supposes it’s their own foolishness that led them to this point; they had to have opened their eyes and realized they weren’t the only teenager on the planet to experience feelings like romance and crushes. But, all of the sudden, they’re at the thrift shop with Ena, and she’s sifting through a rack of size-small shirts while Mizuki holds boba tea in either hand, and Ena decides to just drop an entire, giant, nuclear bomb of a sentence onto Mizuki.
“I think I like girls,” She states, pausing her movements so she can study a t-shirt that catches her eye.
Mizuki has known Ena long enough to pick up on her little behaviors - the ways she reacted to different sorts of heavy-information moments. Mizuki knows that, when Ena is discussing something important that centers around someone else, she keeps steady eye contact and refuses to back down. She always does it when she knows Mizuki is upset - genuinely upset - or when something is going on with one of her friends. But Mizuki also knows that, when the information is about herself, Ena acts almost painfully nonchalant. Mizuki was careful to not let this little secret slip, because they liked being able to know when something was bothering Ena, or when what she said might be heavier than she let on.
Mizuki can tell, by the way Ena entirely avoids eye-contact, by the way she doesn’t really elaborate on her soft-spoken statement, that Ena is voicing something deep and raw and sensitive about herself - and it almost hurts Mizuki, how they’re not able to do the same. Liking other girls was dangerous, but nothing nearly as dangerous as… whatever it is that Mizuki is.
“Ah, really?” Mizuki responds smoothly, entirely genuine but especially careful not to be insensitive, “Who’s the lucky girl, then, Ena?”
“Um, I think… remember Airi? The friend I met through middle school?” Ena asks, finally shooting a glance towards Mizuki. An opening, an offering; kind of like a scared cat slowly crawling out of their cage. “I realized… my feelings towards her back in middle school were more than just friendly. In a way I could never feel for guys, I mean.”
Mizuki clicks their tongue; “To think, Ena and Airi could have been the middle-school romance. Don’t feud with Shizuku, now!” Ena laughs at this, sudden and almost shocked, eyes sort of wide and searching. And Mizuki finds something settles deep within them here; not quite a fear, nor an insecurity. Just a general feeling of dismay. Because Mizuki would never really be right, would they?
It strikes them with melancholy to understand it; to know what this all means for them. Because they look like this and behave like this but they are not a girl. And it weighs on them now, heavy on their shoulders, because being not-a-boy isn’t enough for them. It doesn’t matter if who they are is real, or valid, because there’s a billion more problems than just being valid. If they were not valid, then it’s all a phase; and they can move on to being a girl, or even a boy; just something all-the-way.
Mizuki realizes, painfully, that a hundred Google-searches and a million articles of people that all feel the same as they do will not change a thing. Because being real is so much worse than being fake.
Mizuki, selfishly, wished the world would end. People always say about how time flies when you’re having fun, but Mizuki doesn’t think that’s true. Not for them at least.
Time flies regardless. Mizuki remembers, back before they had Ena to keep them company, the times that they’d hide away into their room for weeks at a time. They never really did, or felt, anything… and yet they’d wake, push through the hours, and find that the sky outside was dark within the blink of an eye. They’d finally push themself to talk to a friend, or just leave the house, and they’d find that everything changed. It reminded them of those apocalyptic disaster movies where people would leave their homes to find the Earth around them in shambles, covered in fire and dust. It felt terrifying.
Mizuki much preferred the way time flows when you’re having fun; not because it feels any different to them, but because they finally have somewhere where they can truly exist. They do not freeze as time flows around them, sheltered from the constant change of reality. They flow with it.
Sometimes, Mizuki feels like a little kid. Ena is only a few months older, and she’s not insanely mature or emotionally intelligent or even physically older looking in comparison, but still… Mizuki finds that they feel so young around her. It seems she always has a hold on the way time rushes, the way it never makes any sense. Mizuki can imagine it; being frozen in place, permanently stilled, just watching as Ena flows on like everything else. Mizuki can imagine watching her draw and go on walks and watch shows and take her friends out for tea or pancakes or shopping; and after a while, Ena would turn to Mizuki and pull them out of their stupor and ask them - “What are you waiting around for?”
It’s not really like that anymore, though. Ena will only let Mizuki be depressed - or, at least, alone - for a little while. Sometimes, when Ena pushes herself into Mizuki’s side and puts a movie on their laptop, or when Ena calls Mizuki far past midnight just to talk about her day, Mizuki finds that Ena might just be the only person who really cares for Mizuki. It’s always been so clear, both in Mizuki’s behavior and their general statements, that they’re so afraid of being alone . And yet, it seems, Ena is the only person who has bothered to listen.
It’s not like Mizuki would’ve had the power to hate - or even be angry with - Ena, if she hadn’t. But they think they appreciate her in another little way to know that she does.
To Mizuki, life has always just been this: You’re alone, you’re alone, and then you’re dead. And everyone says, “There’s nothing we could’ve done,” but you and everyone else knows they just had to stay. Just one person could’ve stayed.
But Mizuki knows, anymore, that Ena will. ( And she’s just one person. But one person is enough. )
Still, this doesn’t mean Mizuki’s relationship with time is a positive one. They still hate the way it pulls them along; almost gives them whiplash, sometimes, when they look over at where Ena sits next to them on the park bench and think: Wow, we’ve really grown up, huh?
Sixteen passes onto seventeen like a blur; and it feels like Ena walks with them every step of the way, even when it feels like they are wobbly on their own legs, like a toddler who hardly knows how to navigate. Mizuki knows they aren’t immature, because their childhood hadn’t really allowed them the lenience of raw existence just for the fun of it, just to experiment and to experience and to learn. But maybe that’s its own message for Mizuki. They’ve honed how to keep the peace, how to behave, how to help when problems arose… but they never were given a chance to break free.
Maybe that’s something that makes Ena so much better than them; the way she’s able to just test her own boundaries. Wear new styles in public and try new foods she’s never had before and push the limits of her own artistic capabilities. Ena is someone whose existence is so raw and continuous and overflowing that Mizuki finds themself not only loving her, but envying her - not in a competitive way, of course, but in a way where they desire to shine just as much as Ena is able to.
When they think about that memory of brave confessions and thrift-shopping, they find that they desire her bravery, too.
The thing is, Mizuki is nearly wracked with guilt for their own perception of Ena. They know she’s an amazing person, and they know she doesn’t lie when she reassures them, gentle through the whistle of midnight breeze, that she loves them unconditionally and regardless of whatever it is that troubles them. They know she’s incredible and open minded and so, so kind. But, all the same, there’s that fear. Because they know that Ena is sensitive, in some strange and indescribable way. They know that she says these things to Mizuki because she trusts them.
So the concept of ever, even inadvertently, breaking her trust… it shatters their heart into a million, sickeningly painful pieces.
It’s around the same time that year that two sort-of big events happen.
The first is something more… internal, for Mizuki. It’s not even really one instance, but several little incidents over a course of time that pile up into one sudden wave of comprehension. The sensation sort of reminds them of the day they fell in love with Ena; although, luckily, they were allowed this own one in the comfort of their own bedroom.
It was at their desktop, scrolling through Instagram, when their eyes settled on some post. It was hardly a memorable or even groundbreaking one compared to other things they’ve seen; just some fanart of two anime girls holding hands.
But their mind did some weird sort of thing; something that reminded Mizuki of when you flounder around for the side of the pool when you’re stuck in the deep end, or when you launch yourself to reach the goal before your opponent does. They almost feel their own mind grasp at air as vague, deconstructed thoughts form. Eventually, as Mizuki’s hand falls away from the mouse and sort of lifelessly onto the desk, their thoughts align into something structured, and even more certain.
I’m not a girl, they think, eyes focused on the drawing in front of them, But I’ve never seen anything more accurately describe myself than this.
It’s less of a decision and more of an understanding: to know that, whoever they are… lesbian is certainly part of it.
As for the second, Mizuki finds this one is far more terrifying to think about - something Mizuki might’ve cried at even the thought of, back at age fifteen - and, unfortunately, this is also much farther out of their own control.
It’s almost funny, how naive Mizuki had been throughout that day. Because, as much as they wished that life was like fiction, where they had some sort of innate sense to the oncoming dangers they’d face, fiction was just fiction . Fantasy. Ena had been over to their house a billion times over the past couple years, it felt like. Mizuki had given up on treading on eggshells with her in their home after a couple visits, ultimately deciding there was no real danger within this house that wouldn’t exist outside of it.
It was all because of Ena forgetting to bring a shirt. Or maybe it was because all of Mizuki’s comfortable clothing was dirty, except for one top. Or maybe it was all to blame on the fact that Mizuki is just an absolutely ridiculous idiot .
Mizuki asked their mother if they could borrow one of her shirts for bed, and their mother told them to go grab one from her bedroom, and Mizuki had been too foolish to relish in the peace ( as they pulled a plain black shirt from their mother’s drawer ) until it was torn from them. They turned to Ena, about to make some stupid remark about this being one of the few times Mizuki would wear something solid black, when they notice Ena looking down at an image curiously.
“Since when do you have a brother?” Ena asks, innocently; and Mizuki feels confused for only a split second before they see the picture Ena is studying and…
Their heart plummets to the pit of their stomach, with an impact that resonates through their entire body, leaving every inch of their skin raw and shaky and ugly , all exposed like livewires, like Mizuki is not human but made from circuits and metal and electricity. Mizuki wants to cry, and they want to vomit, and they want to evaporate into mist or to clip out of this reality and into another or to open their eyes from this weird haze and learn this was all some sick nightmare their mind came up with.
Ena turns to them, and her curious eyes confirm something Mizuki had felt so long ago. Being real is so much worse than being fake.
“That’s,” Mizuki cuts themself off with a weird noise, something sort of like gasping for air before you’re plunged beneath the water again, and then they force a laugh that eases not the reaction Ena may have, nor the pain Mizuki will feel in response. “That’s me, actually.”
“Oh,” Ena responds, and Mizuki feels a weird surge of nausea, because they wish she had more words to say; they thought ripping off the bandaid would leave all the pain and wounds bare and open to see, but this response only leaves Mizuki teetering farther over the edge of anticipation. Ena just looks back to the photograph swiftly. “I should’ve known, actually. Your smile hasn’t changed at all.”
The smile Ena has on her face is small, but it’s genuine, and Mizuki thinks that much is enough to ease the brimming tension away.
It’s only after they have both dressed for bed and settled comfortably onto Mizuki’s mattress that Ena softly speaks. “Airi is the same, you know?” She states, and then, after a moment of silence passes where Mizuki doesn’t know what to say; “I’m only telling you because she’s okay with people knowing. I… I only met her after she was already all… skirts and long hair and stuff… but that’s not the point .”
Ena looks over at Mizuki, and her eyes make something a lot like love spark in the deepest corners of Mizuki’s chest; and they hope the fireworks they’re feeling don’t reflect in their eyes, but even so, they can’t find it in themself to look away. “I just want you to know I don’t think you’re crazy or anything.”
Ena’s hand gently finds Mizuki’s, slowly interlocks their fingers; and Mizuki feels the way their skin burns fierce, hopes it doesn’t bleed through to Ena’s palm. It’s hard to sleep like this, to drift off with that unfamiliar warmth coursing through their hand; but when Mizuki peels their eyes open to peer at Ena in the dark and finds her gentle, sleeping face, Mizuki decides it’s worth it.
Ena turns eighteen four months before Mizuki does, and they go out to that same pancake shop they’ve been at a billion times before, and Mizuki makes the waiter sing happy birthday with them and put a candle in Ena’s pancake for her to blow out. Their gift for her is a little necklace, a heart-shaped purse, and a slightly expensive shirt they knew Ena liked; and she whacked their arm and told them that was way too much, but Mizuki just grinned at them from across the table.
They stay out late, and Ena paints something she wont let Mizuki see while they sit on a blanket at the park. The stars aren’t all that visible because light pollution sucks, but Mizuki is making up fake constellations in their head when Ena asks, “Do you ever feel like life goes too fast?” She’s not looking at Mizuki, but they find themself staring at her. It’s not the first time they want to kiss her, and they know it’ll not be the last.
“Time is crazy, and weird,” Mizuki says, tiredly; the night air brushing against their skin like this always makes them feel so serene and relaxed, and even though Ena had complained about being a little cold, Mizuki knew she felt the same. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Ena laughs a little, mixing up her paint on her palette carefully. “You’d be super successful, either way, I think,” Ena bites her lip in concentration, and Mizuki bites their own to keep from voicing how hopeless their life would be without someone like Ena to pull them out of the bad times; or even just to help them through it. “I’d probably be all decked out in clothes you designed, five years in the future.”
Mizuki laughs, jovial and slightly flustered at the remark. “ Really? You think so?”
“Of course,” Ena tells them, “You’re amazing, Mizuki.” Mizuki’s face is warm and tingly against the cool air, and they turn their face back towards the sky, and time feels suspended. Just for a moment. Against the peace of the night sky, against the quiet of the empty park, against the sound of bristles against canvas… Mizuki feels time freeze alongside them, burying them in every shade of peace.
Ena doesn’t show Mizuki that painting until four months later.
Shiraishi An gives Mizuki a sweater on their birthday that’s bright pink and covered in star-shaped, white patches. “I saw this a whole month ago and it reminded me of you! I’ve been so impatient to give it to you; but I’m so bad at remembering birthday gifts, so I knew I should just save it!” She’d said, shoving the sweater over with no packaging or wrapping; and Mizuki had smiled so wide it hurt.
Mizuki, despite the hour spent carefully picking their own outfit that morning, puts the sweater on overtop of their clothes immediately. It’s a little warm outside, that day, but they don’t care. It feels good, to be remembered.
Ena promises that she has presents for Mizuki the second they see each other, but tells them that they’re all back at her house. “I’m just letting you know,” Ena had said, cheeks abnormally flushed, “I remembered all you did for me, so…”
“I don’t need presents anyway,” Mizuki responds with a smile, wrapping their arms around Ena and pulling her close, just to tease her, “As long as I got my Ena!” She’d pushed Mizuki away, cheeks flaring with that familiar, angry blush, before she silently started storming in the direction of the cafe they were going to.
“Silent treatment on my birthday?!” Mizuki called after her, picking up their pace, “Seriously?”
And despite all the playful fights and bickering, Mizuki knows their own statement was endlessly true; because they appreciated gifts, and being thought about, but any day was so much better if Mizuki had Ena by their side. Sometimes it’s hard to understand what Ena sees in them, why she’s still their friend after so many years; but Mizuki supposes that only Ena truly needs to know that, right?
Mizuki just knows, as Ena remains by their side, continuously talking and teasing and keeping Mizuki company throughout the day; the same day that, really, would’ve terrified the version of Mizuki that they were a year ago, or the year prior to that. They wouldn’t even say they’re ready , really; because who is ready to become an adult? Who’s ever ready to have all these expectations and responsibilities flung onto you in just a day?
It’s just worth it to understand that life does not have to be easy for it to be okay . You’re never really ready for change; that’s what bravery is made of. Continuing on, even when you don’t really know what you’re doing.
It’s kind of sad, to look back on your entire life and find that you’d unknowingly lived it all in fear. But it’s kind of exciting, to know that you were taking a leap even in your smallest moments.
Maybe knowing all of this is why Mizuki can sense the leap Ena knows she is taking when she hands over that canvas, back at her house. Or maybe it’s just knowing Ena; knowing the way she refuses to look at Mizuki means that she’s afraid. “I also got you shoes,” Ena says, motioning towards the box in pink wrapping paper pressed against Mizuki’s hip, and they can’t help but laugh; both in disbelief and amusement.
“You’re not supposed to tell me what it is before I open it!” Mizuki says, eyes still focused on the canvas in their hand. The careful strokes of pink, and white, and the tan of Mizuki’s skin. The green, careful strokes of grass along the ground, licking over the edges of a pale-yellow blanket. The details of sparkles in eyes and painted nails and wisps of hair across the smooth surface of skin. Softer, Mizuki thanks Ena. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s you, so it would be…” Ena says, and Mizuki immediately feels flustered at the statement, turning tentatively towards Ena with a shy smile. Ena’s face is pink, and her eyes are wide, and she ducks her head as if she hadn’t meant to say that.
“Ena?” Mizuki mumbles, gentle.
In a soaring leap, Mizuki decides haphazardly, that growing up isn’t the only act of bravery they’ll face, today.
The canvas drops carefully onto their own lap as Mizuki’s hands slowly trek the journey to Ena’s face; and they hold her there, for a moment, just to look at her - just to remember everything that has brought them to this moment. Maybe they’re afraid, or maybe they’re frozen in time, or maybe they’re just not fast enough; because Mizuki means to kiss Ena, there, but Ena is leaning forward and kissing Mizuki first, instead.
It’s gentle, and innocent, but it’s gentle and innocent in a way that Mizuki thinks only Ena can treat them. Her hands softly grab ahold of their wrists, which still hold either side of Ena’s face, and Mizuki can feel the heat of Ena’s blush against their fingertips. Their hands stay there even after Ena pulls away, and the both of them are still for a moment; Mizuki finds that they cannot even open their eyes to look back at Ena’s face, but they have known her long enough to guess what expression she might be making.
“You’re so stupid!” Ena says, whacking Mizuki’s arm, pulling them swiftly out of their dream-like daze. Their eyes snap open, meet Ena’s, who hasn’t moved very far for someone acting so angry. Mizuki has known her long enough to know better, anyway. “All these years and all I had to do was paint you for you to make a move?”
Mizuki can hardly find it in them to be offended, pushing through the weird haze - and slight embarrassment. “Wh- You could’ve done it first, if you were so impatient!” They argue, but they’re grinning a bit, so they hardly have the same energy as Ena.
“I did! Had to talk to you first, had to come out to you first, and had to kiss you first! You know, you really are nothing without me…” Ena responds, just crossing her arms. And it’s just a joke, coming from Ena, but Mizuki laughs softly and finds that statement was so much more honest than Ena would ever understand. It wasn’t a bitter thought, nor an offended one. Just something Mizuki knew as completely, infinitely true. In the same way that life has always worked, people only truly change when it’s due to other people. In a way, from the moment Mizuki made a friend out of Ena, she had impacted them; and as time coursed on, her existence only rooted deeper in Mizuki’s.
But they know this much: being infinite in time does not matter, because nothing is endless, and everything is endless all the same. Ena could disappear from Mizuki’s life today, and yet, Ena is never truly gone.
Mizuki is confident with all they’ve been through over the years that Ena will continue on like this, a staple by Mizuki’s side. But in the end, that’s not what matters.
It’s this much that makes Mizuki realize, as the stress of aging fades from their bones, that the idea of living forever isn’t as imaginary as it seems. In a way, everyone is eternal, rather Mizuki has the capability to entirely comprehend what that means or not. They know Ena has indirectly taught them this much; it’s not time that matters, but impact. It’s not infinity that matters, but change.
Mizuki is growing up, growing older, constantly altering from that childhood version of themself in thousands of different ways; and, really, they find that being a mosaic of the people you surround yourself really isn’t as limiting as it seems. In fact, this much reminds Mizuki that they are never truly isolated.
Akiyama Mizuki hated being alone; but they didn’t have to worry about that anymore.