Minami-ke (c) Koharu Sakurada
the day Fuyuki returns
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
"Want to have breakfast tomorrow at ours?" Chiaki asks, hazel eyes piercing his. There was no indication of sarcasm or displeasure at his sudden reappearance, simply sincerity.
Fuyuki averts his eye. In typical Fuyuki-behaviour, he gives excuses not to – he had to check the condition of his current residence, or unpack his luggage, or even water his (dying) plants. Things he needs to do; but they could be put off an hour or so, a day or two even. Excuses are what these 'things' are.
Had he faced the blonde, he would have known that his presence is no longer tolerable, a bother. Not just a benign 'bother', but a nerves-grating, nose-wrinkling irritation. The youngest Minami huffed, sarcastic and unkind, "I see you haven't changed." She continues walking.
His hand wishes to reach out and hold onto her, his lips wishes to utter words and catch her attentions. It has been so long. He missed her so, so badly. Letters are merely words on paper, a tangible means of maintaining their communications. Memories are merely pauses in time captured and stored into the mind, an intangible means of remembering faces and names and behaviour-mannerisms.
To see her, physically –
Yet, his hands restrain themselves. He can only whisper her name into the crisp autumn air.