Shadow. Amanda Sun
I wouldn’t let her use my first name. It was too close, too personal, and I wasn’t used to letting someone see that deeply into me. I had to keep Myu at a distance, to keep her safe. I couldn’t let her get hurt by the monster in me. I wasn’t that shitty of a boyfriend.
She walked toward me, waving goodbye to her friends with perfectly manicured fingernails. I rolled my eyes. She should’ve been wearing gloves—it was winter, and even though there was no snow on the ground, the wind still held a sharp bite.
It’s not like I didn’t like Myu. For one thing, she was totally hot. I was pretty sure Sato was jealous she’d confessed to me because he’d acted all pissed. And sometimes Myu whispered kind things to me that caught me off guard, and then I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and never let her go.
I liked having someone who cared about me, how being with Myu let me pretend I was normal. I liked that I was starting to really fall for her. Loud and demanding as she sometimes was, she had this other side to her that was thoughtful and soft. I wanted to let her see the real me, call me by my first name, to let her into my world. To draw for her.
Then I would remember what I was capable of, and why I could never do that. The shadows that tried to claim Taira in the nightmare—they were coming for me, too. The ink drowning my life—I could barely control it. I couldn’t afford to drop my guard, not even with Myu.
She wrapped both arms tightly around my arm, pressing her cheek against my shoulder.
“Yuu-chan,” she whined, her fingernails glittering in the sunlight. “You didn’t answer my texts last night.”
I wanted to say sorry, but that’s what nice guys said, and I couldn’t be one, not with the crowd we were drawing. Nice guys attract friends, but I needed everyone to leave me alone. I stepped back and shrugged.
“I was busy.”
“With what? Practice?” I didn’t answer. It was a good enough excuse. I couldn’t tell any of them the truth, not really. “Yuu-chan, the tournament’s not for weeks. How long does it take to write your girlfriend a text?”
“I barely made it home before I collapsed, Myu,” I lied. To make up for it, I cupped her chin in my hand and kissed her forehead gently. It’s not like I wanted to be a jerk, but I couldn’t afford the attention. To protect Myu and my classmates—to protect myself—I had to keep everyone at a distance. That way I could stay in control. I couldn’t let it fall apart the way it had before.
Being a loner had worked for a while, but that’s when the balance tipped. Because when one of the kendo champs of the school turns down every cute girl’s confession, shuns almost every guy who wants to hang out, forgets his wristband and shows off the trail of scars on his arm—that’s when he becomes mysterious, a puzzle to be solved. That’s when people talk, when the rumors swirl and the truth hovers just below the surface, ready to destroy everything.
That’s when Myu had confessed, and I’d known what I had to do. Now we’d been together for three months, and they’d stopped digging into my past, into my present. They’d forgotten to ask where I disappeared to or where the scars came from. We’d become mini-celebrities, as much as an American quarterback dating a cheerleader, shallow crowd-pleasers who weren’t asked any tough questions. We were normal, and on top of that, I blended in. And as I’d come to know Myu better, I’d found maybe I didn’t have to be alone anymore.
Maybe. And then the voice from my dreams, the woman holding the mirror.
There is only death.
“Oi, Yuuto!” came a sharp voice, and I snapped my head up. Damn it. Nothing like spacing out to get the rumors going.
“Yo, Sato,” I said, waving my free arm at him. Satoshi grinned back as he walked toward us. His hair was bleached as white as a rice ball, and he’d hoisted his shinai, the wooden sword we used for kendo, across the back of his shoulders, both wrists wrapped around it like he was carrying a yoke. The white tie wrapped along the handle was unraveling, meaning he wasn’t taking care of his equipment. Coach Watanabe would be pissed if he noticed during practice.
Myu’s lips turned in a frown. She and Satoshi didn’t get along. Myu didn’t think much of the circles he associated with, but Sato and I went too far back for me to turn on him for any girl. We were kendo teammates and best friends since elementary school—since the transfer, when the world had gone dark around me. He had his own share of secrets, but it didn’t stop him from trying to drag mine out from time to time.
“Ne, Ishikawa,” Myu said, calling him by his last name to stress the distance between them. I stumbled as she tugged me toward her and pointed a finger at Satoshi. “You had all last night’s kendo practice with him. It’s my turn now, so get lost.”
Ishikawa’s face crumpled in confusion. “Kendo practice?”
Shit. The ice below me was cracking. I headed toward the school door. I had to lose the crowd before I plunged down and drowned in the truth. Myu was dragged along with me, her arms slowly unlinking from around my arm. Satoshi followed, despite the glare of death I was giving him.
“Wait,” Myu said as I pulled open the genkan door. Walls of stacked boxes formed aisles of shoes and school slippers around us. “There was no practice last night?” The door swung shut behind the three of us. I said nothing, slipping out of my shoes and striding toward my box.
“The week before school ends?” Sato smirked. “Not likely.”
“Yuu-chan, were you...lying?”
“I didn’t lie, exactly,” I said, my eyes downcast to the floor. I had to fix this, but instead I’d gone into panic mode, alarms blaring in my head. My heart felt like it would give out. So much for being suave and in control. Dumbass.
“Where were you then?” Myu said.
“With some other girl.” Sato grinned.
I gave him a look of imminent murder. “Urusai,” I spat. “You’re a dick, Sato.” I pressed my fingers into Myu’s shoulders, looking into her wide eyes. “He’s lying.”
She didn’t look like she believed me.
“I’m totally lying, Myu,” Ishikawa laughed, and then she let out a shaky breath. What the hell? She believes him, but not me?
“So?” she said, waiting for the truth.
“So he was probably sketching,” Satoshi said, ramming his toes against the wooden floor to push the slippers onto his feet. “Loverboy wants to be a freaking Picasso.”
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