Almost Mercy

The back hallway was narrow and bathed in the red glow of an exit sign. Bass drummed faintly beneath their feet, resonating through the painted and chipped walls, creating an insulated world apart from the crowd beyond. The door to the main room thudded closed behind them.

Michiko leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to mask the emotions booming inside her. Ji stood opposite, composed, their eyes impenetrable. Their relaxed posture, with one shoulder casually resting against the wall, suggested they were impervious to the weight that filled the small space. Michiko's feelings were a tangled mess. She resented how calm Ji appeared, as if they hadn't just shown up at her apartment, as if the handwritten note they'd left wasn't sitting on her table like some enticing warning. She had ignored them for days, wrestling with her thoughts, yet there they were, smiling at another girl with that charm she knew all too well, and Michiko couldn't decide if she was more annoyed or envious of their ease.

"You're playing with me," Michiko accused, her voice tense yet brittle at the corners.

Ji remained motionless. No hint of amusement, no twitch of surprise—just a piercing gaze that felt like it could drill through stone.

The silence was a suffocating presence until Michiko shifted, her agitation palpable. "Why? Why me?"

A long moment passed before Ji finally answered, their voice an octave that barely reached her ears. "Because you're different."

She scoffed, her bitterness laced with defiance. "That's your explanation?"

"You're blunt," Ji continued, their voice with mild force, eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that felt like a spotlight. "You're unapologetic. Messy. Even cruel, when the mood strikes."

Michiko's eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring. "That doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It is to me."

Ji's earnestness slipped past her defenses, catching her off guard. She scrutinized their expression, hunting for any trace of deceit. "So that's it? You're into girls who are mean to you?"

"No," Ji replied with a calmness that bordered on eerie, taking a deliberate step forward, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. "Most people try to fix me. You tried to avoid me."

Their tone wasn't bitter. It was almost… fond, like twisted admiration.

The words threw her off balance, more than she dared to admit. She'd thought she'd been clear about what this was. A dare. A test. A fleeting encounter to prove a point. Michiko's spine pressed harder against the wall. "You didn't stop me from doing that."

Ji took another careful step closer, voice dropping lower. "I didn't want to."

The space between them shrank to a charged, intimate proximity. Michiko swallowed dryly. "So it was just about the chase for you?"

"It was," Ji acknowledged, their voice a fine storm, something unreadable appearing in their eyes. "At first."

Each breath Michiko took felt like it clawed its way down her throat.

Their voice didn't waver, yet something in their expression shifted. Michiko searched their face for something false or something rehearsed. But Ji was masterful, too convincing, too real even when they weren't.

"And now?" she asked, quieter, a hint of vulnerability slipping through.

They leaned back, slowly, until their shoulders met the opposite wall, mirroring her stance. The movement made the hallway feel impossibly small. Like the world was folding in around them.

"I don't know," Ji said at last, voice a whisper on the cliff of vanishing. "But it doesn't feel like a game anymore."

Michiko's heart lurched with a mix of pain and confusion at the unexpected confession. She had braced herself for pretense, for Ji to maintain their well-crafted façade. Accusations of deceit and manipulation danced on the tip of her tongue, yet the genuine look in Ji's eyes left her speechless. 

Ji looked over at her, eyes softer now. "You look tired."

"I am," Michiko said. It slipped out before she could stop it.

Ji nodded like they already knew.

A beat of silence passed. Michiko could hear the faint click of glasses being washed in the distance. Someone's laughter spilled down the hall, then faded again.

Ji spoke without moving. "Do you really want me to leave you alone?"

The question landed heavier than it should have. Because it wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a challenge. It was a door. A real one. And Michiko wasn't ready to close it. But she wasn't ready to walk through it either.

Her fingers dug anxiously into her own arms, her jaw aching from how tightly it was clenched. She opened her mouth, closed it again, searching for words that refused to come easily. "I don't know," she finally admitted, voice barely audible.

That was the truth.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't strong.

But it was honest.

Ji didn't advance or attempt to close the remaining distance between them. Instead, they offered a simple nod, acknowledging her honesty without pressing for further revelations. This soundless acceptance eased something tightly wound and painfully constricting inside Michiko's chest.

The murmured sounds of the bar seeped in faintly, their melodies dulled by the intervening walls and distance, like a muted soundtrack to the tense silence that held the hallway in a suspension.

"I don't trust easily," Michiko confessed, her eyes fixed on the scuffed floor at their feet. "And I don't understand why I want to trust you."

Ji's expression softened almost imperceptibly, their tone a blend of gentleness and resolve. "Maybe because, despite everything, you know I'm not your enemy."

Michiko slowly lifted her gaze, her eyes meeting Ji's steady, patient ones. The honesty woven into their words felt disarmingly real, achingly vulnerable, dissolving her defenses with muted persistence.

Neither moved, and neither spoke again. But as Michiko stood in that silent hallway, she realized the urgent need to flee had dissipated.