“………”
“………”

Interrupting Amamiya Tōru’s soliloquy.
I now waited silently once more for her to finish washing everything.
And Amamiya Tōru, having completed everything, also entered the bathtub where I was soaking, without a word.

Facing each other, kneeling and hugging ourselves.

I gazed into her eyes.
　Just as I thought our eyes met, Amamiya Tōru’s gaze shifted slightly downward.
……….
The air should have been thick with tension, yet your ears were red — where on earth are you looking!
She bent her knees further, blatantly covering her chest.

“You’re naughty, Amamiya-san.”
“………. Tell me about Mashiro.”

She seemed intent on pretending that moment never happened.
　Oh well.
I opened my mouth with a serious expression.

“You’re concerned about the scar on my left arm, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I did this to myself.”
“…Yeah.”

Even Amamiya Tōru must have vaguely suspected that the white line on this left arm was self-harm.
　Her reaction was rather detached. Expressionless, utterly transparent. Yet the length of her nod revealed her coldness was merely a façade.

“Why did you do that?”

Asked by her, still transparent, I pondered how best to explain.

For someone incapable of caring about others, yet forced to live alone, this world was unbearably dull, monochrome. And it offered no kindness.
　For a time, I genuinely believed this world was rotten to the core. I’ve said it before, but I was a girl prone to intense delusions.
I understand now. It was my own rotten core, running away, refusing to see what I didn’t want to see. I wanted to believe I could survive alone, utterly ashamed of the part of me that craved reliance on others. Covering my eyes with both hands, refusing to accept reality.
Well, of course my delusions grew intense.

　But,

“Because running away alone didn’t solve anything, I suppose?”

I fled from interacting with others.
I fled from communicating with my family.
I fled into novels. I fled into manga.
Yet what lay beyond was only a bland, tasteless ‘nothingness’.

In that hollow, monochrome world, painful and agonising things gradually began to seep in.

　There were countless opportunities for change if I’d only looked.
Surely there were many things that could have brought joy or happiness, yet it was I who missed them.
But back then, I didn’t possess the thought that I was at fault; I merely lamented the terror of loneliness that consumed me, thinking only how wretched I was.
And I didn’t stop at lamenting. To expel the negative emotions within me, I slashed my left arm. At first, I took a cutter from the living room and cut. The location didn’t matter. I simply chose somewhere no one would notice. Had my uniform not been a skirt, I might have cut my leg instead.

I remember how unusually long it took the first time I cut my arm.
I’d expected the cutter to slice cleanly, but instead, it felt like a saw – that sensation of forcing the blade in by pulling and pushing it back and forth.
　It hurt. There was no gushing blood as I’d imagined; instead, red blood seeped out slowly, like bubbles rising.
After that first time, I stopped using the cutter and switched to black-handled scissors.
Simply pressing down hard and pulling back with force was enough to easily slice through the skin.
Watching the blood flow steadily, my mind grew clear.

“Despite never opening my heart to anyone but myself, retreating into my shell. That shell was flimsy, easily shattered. I thought I was only ever tasting sadness and things I disliked. Painful, agonising, wanting to escape. But my shell was so small and cramped, there was nowhere left to flee. Negative emotions just kept building up inside my chest, swelling until it felt like it would burst open any moment. So I cut myself in a random place, to let ‘it’ flow out of my body.”

I realised I should have been looking into Amamiya Tōru’s eyes as I spoke, yet I was staring at the surface of the water in the bathtub.
That’s how much this past that left me with this scar is something I want to look away from.

　How absurd, considering I did it to myself.

I lifted my gaze from the rippling water and looked into Amamiya Tōru’s eyes again.
Her gaze wasn’t directed at mine either.
But this time, it wasn’t on my chest either.
Her gaze was fixed on my white line.
The mark of my self-harm, so repulsive I wanted to look away.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? When you’re in pain, with nowhere left to run, you think, ‘Why does self-harm become the last resort?’”

Who am I even saying this to?
Talking about myself is difficult.
As the words leave my mouth, I become uncertain – am I speaking to my past self, or to the person right in front of me?

Is she even listening to my monologue?

Her hand reaches out towards my left arm.

“(She’s touching me).”

Reflexively, I pull my arm away.
As if fleeing her hand. Or perhaps, fleeing my own dark past.
But this bathtub wasn’t spacious enough for two high school students to move freely.

She grabs me.
Pulls me gently.

And her white fingertips delicately trace my white lines.

“You regret it, don’t you?”

　Amamiya Tōru said this while staring at my scar.

“………Yes.”

………

Yes, I do regret it.

“I see.”

As the word ‘regret’ clicked into place, I realised once more where this meandering conversation had been heading – what I’d wanted to tell her.
What the hell, Amamiya Tōru already knew the answer herself, didn’t she?

“Before something else could hurt me, I hurt myself first. That way, it was just physical pain. I could convince myself it was over. I let my delusions run wild with that logic, convinced all the blood flowing out was just a mass of negative emotions, and I felt good about it.”
“…I see.”
“Amamiya-san, do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

In the end, whether I cut my arm or hurt myself anywhere else, the only thing that comes out of a person is red blood.
　Nothing is contained within it. Not the negative emotions, nor anything else I imagined. It was all my delusion.
When you inflict a wound, you might feel a sense of lightness in your heart. The greater the burden of overwhelming emotion you carry, the stronger that sensation becomes.
I still understand that feeling, how it can become an addiction.

But you will absolutely regret it later.

Self-harm is the wrong way.
I should have relied on my family, and Amamiya Tōru…

　…should have relied on me.

“You said you had no right to be by my side, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I still think that a little.”
“Amamiya-san, hearts bleed too. It’s just invisible. Blood flows from them too.”
“……”
“When it’s painful. When it’s unbearable. When you’ve reached your limit carrying it all alone. Of course it’s better for me to be here. Besides, there’s no such thing as ‘qualifying’ to be by my side. In fact, I want you to stay by my side forever.”

If she touches my left arm.
I’ll touch her wound.

Taking her left hand, as if proposing.

She must have been trampled. I press my lips to the painful wound on the back of her hand.

I don’t want to hug you right now.
Nor do I want to kiss you.
I’m not in heat, so there’s no ulterior motive behind this.

Just on a whim, like one of those ‘tricks’ I was often taught as a child.
I simply placed my lips there and licked.
Amamiya Tōru flinched.
I looked up at her, but her expression remained transparent.
　My face remained serious too.

There was no mood.

“Amamiya-san, please be honest. Don’t try to hurt yourself.”

Because it would only increase the wounds I lick.

“Do you really think it’s better for you not to be by my side, Amamiya-san?”