False God

Tokyo felt the same as last summer. As every summer. Humidity exceeded every measurement, heat and thunderstorms blocked outside of our hotel room window. You were sitting next to the window, on the floor, staring into the night. I just showered for the third time of the day, dried my long hair and applied some hydrating cream on my face. Your hair used to be short, now it’s falling on your shoulders. It was still dripping, and the white shirt of mine that you were using as a makeshift pyjama was half transparent because of the water. You didn’t even bring pyjamas to Tokyo, and I had brought two outfits per day. I made you wear most of those outfits for photo shoots anyway, which you fit in perfectly most of the time except for occasional complaints about something being too tight around your breasts. I took photos of you around quiet areas during the day, near crowded landmarks at night, and we took long train rides when you wanted to write. I don’t ask for your manuscript until you make me read them, you don’t ask to look at the photos before I finish editing them, we kiss in quiet streets and hotel elevators before going back to the room, talking endlessly about writers and arts and the latest anime, doing whatever we want if and when we want. One week in Tokyo, once a year, suspended time for us, we both wanted and thought it would work. Even though we never defined what ‘work’ means.

I should remember to give your shirt back tomorrow, you finally said, without turning back. Ok, now you’re angry. I thought to myself. I have to decide if I want to ignore it or not. Most of the time I’d ignore, and I’m sure you do the same. Neither of us are good at arguing with each other, and the few times we did, I ended up crying involuntarily and I hated myself for that more than you can believe. Still I casually asked you what was wrong as I sat on the bed, hoping that you’d say nothing. You said nothing but the silence wasn’t the serene kind. I looked at your back and you looked tense. The night sky of Tokyo was beaming with neon lights and rushing cars and people who were unable to go home. I should probably just go out and play for another round in the game arcade. It’d be for the best. But I couldn’t move, instinctively I knew I couldn’t and shouldn’t - also because you finally turned around and said, don’t run away.

I’m not going anywhere like this, I squeezed a smile for you.

You stared into a corner of the room this time, after a while you said, let’s talk. Like normal people. 

Since when do you care about being normal? I smiled and retorted. And it was true. 

Fine, you’re right. I don’t. You looked even more irritated than before. 

Do you want to tell me if something’s the matter? I don’t quite understand. I tried again, said as composedly as possible. 

You sound like Kyubey from Magica Madoka, you replied, sounding more frustrated than annoyed. You looked at me and didn’t say a thing for a moment. Then you said, look, you’re not sad. Tomorrow we’re leaving, and you’re not sad. You look so fine with it, and I’m pissed off. Do you know what I mean? 

I didn’t say anything in response to that. That did come as a surprise. For you to notice how I feel about things and care about those feelings was not on my bingo card. In fact, I counted on your ignorance and indifference to conduct this, well, affair, if we’re to give it a name. 

We’d met each other at university, became friends almost instantly, you’ve had a string of boyfriends, and I’ve hated almost all of them. You had other friends, too many of them, I only had you. We moved to totally different continents after graduation, we talked from time to time, we never met again until finally we met once in Tokyo purely by coincidence, by then I’d thought that we’d never meet each other again. I didn’t feel that you wanted me to visit you, and you never talked about visiting my city. Then there was Tokyo, where we happened to be at the same time. And you kissed me when you were less drunk than you made it look like, I didn’t know if you had a boyfriend at the time and I didn’t care. Why would that matter? I wouldn’t have cared if you had crushed a plane into the Eiffel Tower. 

If anything, I’d always been the one who cared about being normal, being socially accepted somehow, being a pretty girl. None of that mattered to you. You didn’t care about the society, and you didn’t care about me. Which was probably why you became a writer and I didn’t. So what’s with this agitation about me being fine with leaving Tokyo and… you? 

Did I do something wrong? I didn’t think being calm would annoy you. Do you want me to be sad, or angry, or what?

You just look back to the night of Tokyo again. And you said, I don’t know. I just hate how every time I talk to you, you sound like you wouldn’t be shocked if we’re to never see each other again.

It’s just logical, right? I shrugged. We usually have 6 hours of time difference, we meet each other because we want to, it’s perfectly reasonable for you to wake up one day and decide to never see me again because of… logistic hassle. I tried to make it sound like a joke, and it didn’t land well.

And you? You won’t wake up one day and want to stop seeing me?

You stared at me, your lips looked bitten and I wasn't sure, but I think your eyes were red.

I wanted to say maybe, but the second that I opened my mouth, I knew it wasn’t true. I never had ever wanted or would ever want to not come to meet you whenever and wherever you wanted me to be. I took a deep breath and asked, why all of a sudden?

And you just threw a question back at me. Do you love me?

Now, that’s too much. I stopped for a moment, knowing that I needed to answer this time, but I couldn’t. I stood up, and your eyes followed me. I had a glass of water and sat down on the floor, two meters from where you were. Look, I said, I’ll give you what you want. If love’s what you want, I’ll give it to you.

Now, you were crying. Silently, not like me. I was a lot more pathetic, I realised. I really wanted your attention with my tears, but your tears were just your own.

You see, I… I sighed. I probably just need to tell you this time, I thought. I mean, I don’t know why you’re asking all of this, I just didn’t want to give you anything that you don’t want. Burdening you with something like… love, or whatnot, when we’re not even living on the same continent felt wrong, I didn’t want to…ruin things, and you’ll…

What?

You’ll not want me anymore. I closed my eyes.

Oh. Congratulations.

Hmmm?

You did ruin things for me.

…right. 

And I still want you.

A part of me wanted to ask you what you meant by that, but no part of you made me feel safe asking that question. The silence that followed was long and tense. I wanted to scream, every time that we meet, I’ve always been the one who initiated the trip. Every time we talk, I’m always the one who sent the last message. I almost killed someone for you. You never had to do anything. Bold of you to ask me if I loved you. Of course I do. And you know it. Kind of cruel of you to ask me just to confirm.

It took probably 10 minutes, or one hour. You stood up, walked to me, extended one single hand to me. I got up, and you just took me like a doll, kissed me but it didn’t feel like a kiss, it was chaos, it was probably frustration, it hurt a lot, and I didn’t protest. You know I love you, right? You said, and it sounded both real and fake. You don’t want to be honest with what you’re feeling, you keep saying that you’d give me what I want, so give it then. I’m ordering now. Love me back. Your arms were hurting mine, your fingernails were breaking my skin, and I think you knew that I was quietly satisfied. You’re desperate, I’m bleeding, this unholy sight is just what I wanted from you, perhaps. To give me a faintest confirmation of what it is to be in your head, to make you want to crack me open. 

We’ll meet again in Tokyo, right ? And maybe next time we can try to be honest. Or not. We can beat around the bushes again, hoping that someone is going to break. Until I’m certain that Tokyo is my favourite city and I’m yours. Until then.