SS: My Youth, For You

My heart beats faster, but I don't know why yet. It's a strange sensation. I'm not used to it. It doesn't fit the logic I've always relied on. My mind works with perfect precision, free of emotional interference. So why now does my heart betray me? Why does it race whenever he's near?

I know this isn't a simple observation of human behavior. No, this... feeling is different. It's something illogical. And yet, it doesn't bother me. Strange, isn't it? This beating of my heart—an uninvited chaos in my otherwise orderly existence. But I suppose it's fitting. After all, what's the point of understanding everything, if not to experience the things that defy logic, if only for a moment?

I'll leave it at that for now. It's not something worth delving into, not yet.

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The café we've chosen is quiet, as it should be. People often seem to crave the comfort of noise, but I prefer the stillness. Less distraction. A perfect place for contemplation.

I stir my coffee slowly, methodically, as if the swirling motions can somehow make sense of the strange rhythm within me. The heat of the liquid doesn't matter. The taste, too, is irrelevant. It's not the drink that I'm after. It's the time spent in this place, with him.

I don't drink it. I just... stare into the cup. It feels like there's more hidden beneath the surface than the liquid itself. A metaphor I suppose, for what I've yet to understand.

"You know," he breaks the silence with that typical sarcasm, "if you're going to sacrifice me, doing it somewhere with better lighting might make for a more dramatic scene."

I look up. His comment is amusing in its usual fashion. "I prefer quiet places. Less distractions,"

He doesn't seem to catch the subtlety. "I can see that. The ambiance here screams 'quiet existential crisis.'"

I tilt my head slightly. "That's exactly why I like it."

I watch as he shifts in his seat. He doesn't know it yet, but I can tell he's uncomfortable. He's always like this when he's around me—evasive, hesitant, trying to hide the discomfort under a layer of sarcasm. But I enjoy this. The way he hides his true feelings while I see through his facade. It's... intriguing.

He picks up his coffee, dark and bitter, and takes a sip. "So, why did you call me here again?"

I allow the silence to stretch just a bit longer. I want to see how he handles it, and how he struggles with the waiting. "I was curious to see how long you'd last today."

"…In what, exactly? This date or life in general?"

"Both."

I let the words hang in the air between us. I can see the way his guard shifts, the way he processes the layers of my statement. To him, I am both a challenge and a mystery. That's exactly how I want it.

The conversation stalls, and I can see him trying to find an escape, some small talk, anything that will break this tension. "You know," he says, leaning back in his chair, "most people would try small talk by now."

"Small talk is efficient," I respond, my gaze steady.

"Exactly. Efficiency is the enemy of dates." He gestures around us. "If people were efficient, no one would bother with overpriced drinks and social anxiety in public."

"I see. You believe inefficient bonding builds character. I should have done more research on the internet."

I know he doesn't fully understand the nuance, but that's part of the fun. His response is too predictable. And yet, I find it oddly comforting. There's something raw in the way he interacts with the world.

"No. I believe it wastes time," he replies, his voice carrying a tone of resignation. "But if I'm going to waste time, I'd rather do it in ways that don't make me question the fragility of my existence."

This isn't about efficiency or existential despair. It's about testing the limits, seeing how far we can go in this strange dance we've found ourselves in.

"I'll keep that in mind for the next time," I say, setting my cup down with deliberate care.

"Next time?" His voice holds a touch of disbelief.

I nod. "I want to learn more about how people spend time with friends."

His eyes narrow, likely trying to decipher my intention. I know what he's thinking—what a strange, cold thing I am. But then, he's right. I did consult guides to understand human interaction better. I have to understand it. How else will I find meaning in these moments? How else will I understand... this?

"That's comforting," he says, half amused, half cynical. "It's nice to know I fall into the same category as pet goldfish."

My chest feels funny.

"Did... did you just almost smile?" he asks, leaning forward, his voice uncertain.

"No," I say as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "I simply had an involuntary muscle reaction."

Another misstep, perhaps. But I don't mind. Not really.

This moment, this strange moment, is somehow perfect. Even if it's illogical. Even if it betrays everything I stand for.

But then, isn't that what makes it worth experiencing?

The silence between us thickens, stretching out into an awkward pause. He shifts in his seat, suddenly falling still. I watch, my gaze unblinking, waiting for something to break the quiet.

Finally, he speaks, his voice softer than before. "Did you... notice that?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Notice what?"

He doesn't answer immediately, and instead, his expression grows more distant, like something heavy has settled in his mind. He seems... distracted.

I lean forward, unable to resist. "Is something wrong?"

He doesn't immediately reply, his gaze flickering to the side, lost in thought. I wait for him to gather his words, sensing something more than just simple hesitation. Finally, he looks back at me, and with a heavy sigh, he mutters, "I had the strangest dream."

"A dream?" I repeat, intrigued by the sudden shift. "What kind of dream?"

His eyes narrow, as if piecing together fragments of his memory. "It was like I had to participate in some... inhuman competition. Had to fight... school principals who were evil, and at some point, I was up against this secret organization."

I tilt my head, listening carefully. "That's quite the odd dream." I pause for a moment, considering. "What was the name of this... secret organization?"

"White Room," he replies, and flinches.

Coincidences are scary after all and it seems dreams are too.

That place no longer exists.

"White Room," I echo quietly. "Interesting."

I took a slow breath before asking, "How do you know it was just a dream?"

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "The plot was all messed up. There is no way I would be that smart. The pacing was wrong, and the ending... the ending was horrible."

I narrow my gaze, intrigued by his assessment. "And you remember the ending?"

He pauses, the grim expression returning to his face. For a long moment, he says nothing, staring at his coffee. Then, with a troubled look, he mutters, "I don't... but I feel like I should."

His response hangs in the air, unanswered, as the weight of his words presses down on the conversation. There's a depth to his unease that I hadn't anticipated.

So, that's what's bothering him. Not the dream itself, but something about it that's left a mark on him.

I remain silent, my gaze fixed on him, reading the subtle tension in his posture. There's something in the way he holds himself now, like a piece of a puzzle he's struggling to solve. A part of me wonders how much of this is connected to the feeling in my chest.

As I continue to observe him, something unexpected catches my attention. There's a small dab of foam on his lip. I stare at it for a moment, drawn to the imperfection.

He shifts slightly, unaware, distracted by the thoughts swirling in his mind. I fight the impulse to wipe it away for him. No, I remind myself. This is not a moment for trivial gestures.

Before I can stop myself, I lean forward, moving close enough that I can almost feel his breath on my skin. I reach out, gently brushing my finger across the foam on his lip. My hand lingers there for a heartbeat before I withdraw. But that's when I noticed the restlessness in my chest.

His eyes meet mine, confused, and I feel it—an overwhelming need to close the distance. I don't question it.

Without thinking, I lean in quickly, catching him off guard, and kiss him softly on the lips.

The sensation is... beautiful. Unexpected, but it swirls through my chest, an unfamiliar warmth spreading, like the delicate dance of a butterfly fluttering within my stomach. The moment is both fleeting and infinite.

I pull back, just as quickly as I came, but the image of his flushed face remains burned into my mind.

His expression is one of absolute disbelief. His face is bright red, like the color of a fresh rose. His eyes are wide, as though struggling to comprehend what just happened.

I lick my lips slowly, savoring the taste. "Sweet," I comment, my voice calm, though internally, I'm aware of the ripple of mess inside me.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, he looks like he's on the verge of saying something, anything, but can't quite form the thoughts. His face, however, speaks volumes. The crimson hue deepens with every passing second, and I find myself... amused by the sight.

As I sit back, my gaze flicks briefly to my coffee. I stare into the dark depths of the cup, and for a fleeting moment, I see something reflected on its surface—my face. But it's not just my face. I notice the corners of my mouth, turned up slightly, as if...

...smiling.

I can't help but feel a shift within me. The word forms before I even consciously acknowledge it.

"I love you, Hachiman."

The words leave my lips without hesitation. There's no reason to stop them, no rationale, no logic to dissect. It just feels... right, even if it makes no sense at all.

Hachiman recoils, his face morphing from utter disbelief to something softer, though his expression still radiates shock. I watch as the pink hue deepens on his cheeks, his eyes wide with surprise.

And then... he smiles.

The sight is unexpected, as though something in him has broken free, like a long-held breath released. The moment stretches, both full of tension and sweetness.

"I love you too," he says, his voice rough but genuine.

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Thank you for making me happy.