She was a transfer student. Hard enough when you're Japanese, but being Japanese-American and not knowing much, it was even worse. But, she was a pretty girl, so all the boys were buzzing right away.

"I'll help her get acclimated, wink, wink, nudge nudge."

"I speak a little English. Is she from California? I like California girls."

"She's got some pretty big boobs, huh? American girls are something else."

They didn't notice how she walked or carried herself. The quiet ways she conducted herself. She wasn't going to play their games. I noticed right away. Her class. Call me a sucker, but I knew from the moment she walked into homeroom. She was above us all.

I had luck, and after school, I found out she'd joined the choir like me. Choir club. Any kind of music club, I was there. She sat on her chair like an English Princess, her long black hair neat and tidy, her uniform perfectly starched and pressed. Not looking at anyone, keeping to herself. It was odd that they'd let her join so late into the year. She didn't know any of the songs we were practicing, and wasn't prepared for our Winter show. It was very strange. But, I soon found out why.

The whole club wanted to get to know her. Asking her if she knew any of the songs we were going to sing. But, she didn't speak good enough Japanese to follow what they were saying so quickly. She spoke so slowly, carefully choosing her words. Very basic Japanese, like a child would say it. Some of the girls took her hands, told her they'd hang out and teach her some Japanese. To some, it might have appeared she was disinterested, but it was just the way she carried herself. A small smile, looking at the ground. Saying she had to go straight home after, "excuse me, I'm sorry."

She soon gathered the reputation of being frigid, something akin to a snob. A snob among snobs. Amazing. People stopped asking her to hang out. Stopped asking her to go places. Stopped asking to be her friend.

During choir practice, she wouldn't sing with us. She'd sit off to the side, watching everyone. The teacher asked her opinion. She'd give a nod or a shake of her head. It became apparent that she was helping him.

The girls became jealous. "What's so great about her? She doesn't even sing. Why is she here? She's creepy, watching us. Judging us. She never says anything. You think there's something going on between them? Snicker. Why would she get special treatment?"

I saw them start to bully her. Bumping into her on purpose, knocking down her books. I'd hear them talking before practice, how they'd observe her all day. Now who were the creepy ones? "She won't even eat the same food as us. She brings a lunch every day. Does she think she's above it? You should see what she brings. I bet it's prepared by a personal chef. All fancy, like. She thinks she's better than us. Well, my father is a lawyer. What does her father do?"

I'd sit at the top of the choir pit. The room was built where the door was at the top of the room, and there was a large step-like arrangement like an amphitheater descending down to the floor, these steps being where we'd all stand to practice. The girls would be down below near the chalkboard before practice, gossiping loudly for all to hear. They wanted her to know they didn't like her. She'd sit in the corner on a chair, staring at her knees. Her perfect sitting posture never broke for even an instant, like she was a statue.

Then, there came a day where I had to meet with the choir teacher to give him a note and explain myself. I was going to be helping my mom after school in a few days, doing an odd job she'd picked up. It was very near the Winter show, so it was bad that I was going to miss a practice. But, he had to understand. I stayed behind after practice that day, in the hallway, waiting for him to come out.

But, he didn't come out. I put my head next to the glass of the window of the door, wondering where he was. The door was slightly ajar, so I thought about swinging it open and barging in. But, I paused, because I saw he was with her. She stood up, her face tilted slightly to the floor, her hands together in front of her, as she always stood.

"I trust that you've been practicing with your teacher." He sat down at the piano. "Did you talk to him about the points we discussed?"

She nodded demurely, still as a statue on the middle of the floor.

"Let's start, then. I know you'll be taking notes. I want to see how you've improved."

She nodded again, shifting a little in her stance. Her legs spread apart a bit, and her feet turned a little inwards. Her hands rose up to her chest, held together, almost a begging position. Maybe, a prayer. Her chin rose, and she closed her eyes. Her lips parted.

I was utterly fascinated. From what he was saying, did she sing after all? Was it a private lesson?

The first notes came out of the piano, and it was something I recognized. No way, I thought.

It was Lacrymosa. Our Winter show was Mozart's Requiem in d Minor, a combined concert with our school's orchestra. We'd spent most of the year on it, and one of the pieces we'd been practicing was Lacrymosa. I knew it back to front. It was the piece that she'd seemed the most critical of, looking over at him as he played the piano, and shaking her head slightly. It made everyone very upset at her. We were trying so hard, so they felt, who was she to judge? "I bet she can't even sing," the girls said.

The piano played a longer intro, and her hands clenched harder. She took in an audible breath, and...

The room seemed to breathe in with her. But I realized, I was forgetting to breathe. Her voice was delicate and light, but powerful like a wind. Commanding, sure, devastated, and innocent. As it lilted up and down, every note was clear as a river in Winter, crisp like an Autumnal breeze, warm like the dirt in Summer, fresh as the young flowers in Spring. The warmth of it seeped into my soul. The innocence pierced into my heart, and I realized there were tears in my eyes.

Her high notes reminded me of a blinking, shining star. The pure light, up above and unreachable, solitary and lonely. Just like she was.

I couldn't show my shame. My note crumpled in my hand, and as she finished, my breath was shaky. It was only two minutes, as my watch said, but I was transformed. She'd taken me in two minutes. My heart was beating so fast, watching her. She looked back at our choir teacher, and he nodded.

That's the last thing I saw. I ran away like a scared dog. As I dashed down the hallway, I could only think of one thing:

Our classmates were wrong. She could more than sing. The reason for her giving our choir teacher advice. Small tears came from my eyes, and I wiped them away with my sleeve as I strode quickly down the hall. They were wrong.

She was an opera singer.

I was thinking of him now. That time. I'd stay late every practice, listening and watching. Eventually, we bumped into each other outside of the door. I'd lingered too long, thinking about his voice. He'd smiled at me, this girlish smile, bowing his head a bit to me and saying, "excuse me, I'm sorry", something he said to everyone. Apologizing for even existing, for being an inconvenience just for being there.

But, he said this to me even though I was much below him. He had every right to pass me by, not acknowledge that he'd bumped into me. I was a scholarship student at our private school. Nobody ever said "I'm sorry" to me. But, he treated me just like everyone else. Someone to say "I'm sorry" to.

I took a chance, because he spoke to me. I offered to wait with him to be picked up after school. He nodded, and we walked outside of the school. I always took the train, but I missed it for him. These quiet times with him led to conversations, and we learned a lot about each other. He learned pretty quickly that I had no friends.

"I'll be your friend," he said slowly and carefully to me, like it was the most special thing in the world, giving me a smile. And that was it. We've been best friends ever since, doing everything together, experiencing the world together. He's my everything, my only and most dear friend.

Eventually, I learned he lived pretty nearby. So, I'd walk him home. He always broke my heart, somehow, just by what he did during those walks. He'd point up at the powerlines, giving me that innocent smile. "Birds," he'd say, showing me some ordinary black birds on the lines. We'd stand there together, gazing at them. I wanted to take his hand. I realized I was developing a crush.

He'd stop by the side of the road, looking at various flowering weeds. As if they were real flowers, he'd crouch down and pick some. I'd patiently watch him, curious as to what he was doing. He got up, and I held his hand to help, the very thing I'd wanted to do all the time. He'd present me with the flowers, and it devastated me every time. It became a pattern.

He loved things like birds on powerlines. Stray cats hurrying along the wall. Flowering weeds along the roadside. Small things that I'd never have noticed, too busy to get home. He paused to appreciate these mundane things. He made me see the world differently, stopping to smell the roses, literally. He invited me to come along, see these things with him. In these ways, we became ever closer.

My crush on him turned into love. Complete and total love. I wanted to protect him always. Make sure he was safe, no matter the situation. I wanted to be his boyfriend, to show everyone at school that if they messed with him, they messed with me. I had no class or manners, so they had to watch out. Never knew what I could do, unpredictable.

After the Winter show, where he'd stolen it by singing Lacrymosa as a solo and other parts such as the quartet solos converted to be for him with the choir accompanying, the girls were more jealous than ever. They took it as him replacing every one, all their hard work for nothing. This last minute interloper, shaming them out of what was theirs by right, for essentially not being good enough. They'd wait for him after practice, trying to get him alone. I'd take his hand and stare them down, walking right past them. They'd scoff, calling us names. Saying we were boyfriend and girlfriend, how perfect, two pieces of trash together.

He didn't seem to mind, though. Just happy to be with his friend. It broke my heart into a million pieces. Why didn't he fight back? Call them names, too? Why was he so quiet?

But, now I know. How he was raised, never saying a word to anybody. You don't talk back. You must carry on. You don't pay attention to those kinds of things. He made his own spin on it, to see the positive. Let's go walk together, there's some pretty flowers. The colors are lovely, shall I pick them for Yami? Will he like them? I will make my friend smile, the best discovery of all on my walk home. He told me these things eventually. It broke my heart again and again.

How kind he was, and nobody knew but me. What a great friend he was. He'd have been the best friend they ever had, if they'd just given him their patience.

There was a coldness on my shoulder, and I looked up. The beeping was back. Too lost in my thoughts. Tetsu was standing there, holding a cold bottle of tea for me. A new friend. He'd poked me with it, to get my attention. We were being quiet, because Sana was finally sleeping. Something very much deserved. He'd been so brave today, waiting. Obeying, even though it took everything in him to obey. Always obedient, polite. Wanting to obey to make others happy, not for his own benefit.

I bowed my head slightly to him, acknowledging the tea. My mom had gotten it for us, but I was too in my thoughts to respond to her coming back from the vending machines. I opened my bottle, and watched Tetsu go back to Sana's bedside. He sat down, and took his hand so carefully. The way he touched him, you could tell there was reverence there. The same kind I have. Something Sana deserved so much.

Did he know? Did he know how lonely Sana is? How much he deserved someone to love him, because he gave so much love to those who didn't deserve it? So much wasted love. That big heart, always waiting to give.

I stared at them, and took a sip of my tea. As I did, my mom walked over to me, and I didn't even notice. Too lost in my thoughts. She put her hand on my shoulder, and started to squeeze it repeatedly.

I realized, just like that day when I heard him sing, that I was crying.