part one
the doubting

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the first time nakamoto yuta sees hanajima ame cry, he's a complete mess and half soaked in his own sweat in a blue training outfit.

big tears and sad eyes seem oddly unsettling when the last thing he remembers is that familiar smile on her face, a curve so painful yet soft. it has always ached somewhere to see her smile like that, and he isn't sure whether it's that, that aches more or if it's her swollen eyes briefly piercing through his own when he takes his first step onto the platform.

hair of various lengths cling to her cheeks and she has puffy eyes, dressed in the regular school uniform and she somehow looks kind of gentle sitting there on the other side, but then her hiccup brings him back to reality, her eyes on him and time just freezing all over again.

maybe it's that the air is cold. he can see his own breath swirl away from him as all the air rushes from his lungs, but her shoulders shoot up as she sobs and that reminds him that it's just him that is frozen, because the way she breathes is erratic and quick.

his bag still hangs from his shoulder uncomfortably from when he carelessly threw it on while rushing out of the changing room, muscles a little too sore to run after a few extra hours of practice. he never minds the pain though, because mom always tells him practice makes perfect.

and she's definitely right; because one step onto the usual platform at the unusual and wrong time (or not?) and he's proved something that he thought he had left behind to forget about long ago.

her smile is too perfect.

he called it, it is too much, the brightest and the kindest, beautiful but so much that he feels something sting watching her smile. he used to think he was crazy for throwing accusations at her inside his head, but now he's pretty sure.

it's fake, the glow on her bottom lip is just some sort of optical illusion her saliva provides, so are the dimples in her cheeks because she tends to force it too much. he barely noticed it before, but now everything makes sense. she has practiced it all along, and practice makes perfect.

he still stands there, dumbfounded. and the minutes don't seem to pass like they used to, sometimes they fly by, and sometimes they don't seem to pass by at all, but as of now time has blended inside his mind and he can't move.

she's still there too, sitting on a bench with her legs crossed and head down. he curses, he wants to call her name, talk to her from all the way from the other side, maybe, but he can't even remember the name her friends screech during lunch when she makes a good joke. all he knows is that she's fake, practiced, and that she's upset, because she is crying in the cold without a break.

then he remembers. his eyes widen as his lips part, soft gasps, but before the name can reach his tongue, her feet are already carrying her away.