Episode 7 — The Curse Is Violet

Every time the train sways, my shoulder brushes Kanzaki-san’s. Every time, my heart leaps, and I pray she can’t hear it. I hope the clatter of the wheels — gatan goto, gatan goto — drowns all of that out.

I steal a sideways glance, taking in the sight of her. I already know it’ll make my heart louder. I do it anyway, drawn helplessly past that contradiction, into the quiet beauty resting beside me.

I used to think silence was something that had to be filled. That sharing time with another person meant there could be no empty space — you had to read the room, the margins had to be occupied, gaps were not permitted. That was exactly why spending time with other people had always been hard for me, why I’d retreated into the world of words, where nothing echoed but my own voice.

But right now, something was different. Whether there were words or not, simply being with Kanzaki-san seemed to be the only thing that needed to mean anything. Which is why I’d chosen to take the slightly-out-of-the-way line, just to ride home with her.

I was turning those thoughts into sentences in my head, watching Kanzaki-san from the corner of my eye — when suddenly her gaze found mine. My body gave a small jump, and I blamed the motion of the carriage. Then, without preamble, words fell toward me.

“Ogawa-san — what do you do when you get home?”

Kanzaki-san asked it with her face turned toward me, as expressionless as ever; whether she was interested or merely going through the motions was impossible to read.

“Um — reading, mostly…”

Writing, I added inside my head. I could hardly say: I’m writing a novel based on you. Strictly speaking, Kanzaki-san wasn’t the model from the very beginning — but she was so uncannily identical to the image of the heroine I’d been carrying around in my head that based on you wouldn’t be far wrong. And since picking up the serialisation again, I’d written nothing but things between me and Kanzaki-san, so there was no getting out of it regardless.

“I see…”

Kanzaki-san murmured and fell quiet. I’d just said silence was acceptable — but having the conversation end there was still sad, so I hurried to pull out more words.

“What about you, Kanzaki-san? You always leave after about an hour — do you have somewhere to be?”

Asking about someone else’s life was so foreign to me that I said it with my eyes averted.

And then — enough to make me look back involuntarily — in a voice tinged with something sad:

“Piano lessons…”

The words and the voice didn’t fit together. Because Kanzaki-san’s playing — after that first raw, emotional outpouring — had lately seemed so light, so dancing, almost joyful; I’d assumed she simply loved piano beyond all measure.

And yet somewhere beneath that impression, a memory surfaced that fit with what she’d just said.

I don’t like it. This name. For the sound to have a bond with violet — something like that. It feels like a curse.

Weighing everything together, perhaps love and something like resentment were bound up in it. I understood that. If someone asked me whether I loved writing without reservation — honestly, no. If anything, it was exhausting, thankless, endlessly self-indulgent. I often thought: why am I putting myself through this. That was precisely why I’d come close to quitting once.

And yet — the fact that I’d started writing again, lured in by Kanzaki-san’s beauty — curse was the right word for it, I thought. And it was because of that curse that I’d been able to meet Kanzaki-san, to weave something between us; and as if in return for that, an uncharacteristically gentle thing left my mouth.

“That makes sense. That’s why your piano is so beautiful.”

Out of character for me — and this time, I didn’t look away. I met those eyes directly.

Kanzaki-san’s eyes widened a fraction, and then she tilted her head, looking up at me. The warmth of her shoulder against mine, the sweet scent drifting from her moving hair — and a question, offered into all of that:

“Ogawa-san — do you like my sound?”
“I do.”

No gap, no pause. The words were out before I’d noticed them coming. Bare, unguarded feeling.

As if to hold that feeling gently. Kanzaki-san closed her eyes.

And rested her head, softly, against my shoulder.

“If you say so, I’ll try a little harder.”

Her voice was closer than usual. Her weight closer. Her feeling closer. All of it together made my heart stand on end, my pulse rising past the point of concealment. Before I could absorb any of it —

The train drew to a stop at Kanzaki-san’s nearest station.

“Well then — ittekimasu.”

Not goodbye today, but ittekimasu (see you later/I’ll be back) — and that made me glad. And yet there was something in me that wanted to say don’t go, wanted to reach out and hold her back.

“Good luck with your lesson.”

I swallowed all of it and offered those clean, simple words instead.

Kanzaki-san gave a small nod and stepped lightly, brightly, out of view.

And even after the doors closed, even after the train pulled away toward the next station — the warmth of Kanzaki-san remained in the slight crease she’d left on my shoulder.