Cold so deep it made your teeth ache. The roof was a tomb. Wind screaming through the metal rails. They huddled in the usual spot. Back against the vent. A single shared blanket she'd smuggled out. Scratchy wool. Smelled like her closet. Lavender. Dust.
They were running out of time. April was a black hole on the calendar. Sucking everything toward it.
Music was off. Discman batteries dead. Just the wind. Their breath.
She had her head on his shoulder. A heavy, perfect weight. Mint on her breath. He could feel the shape of her skull through her hat. Real.
"Kyoto has temples," she said. To his collarbone. "Old wood. My aunt says it's peaceful."
"You want peace?" he asked.
"I want quiet that isn't heavy." She shifted. "What do you want?"
You. The word was right there. A stone on his tongue. He swallowed it. "I don't know."
Liar.
Her hand was between them. On his chest. Over his heart. She could probably feel it. Hammering. A trapped thing. "Your heart's going crazy," she whispered.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
You. You. You.
He didn't say it. The wind stole his breath.
She tilted her head up. Looked at him. Her eyes were dark pools. Reflecting the piss-yellow security light. Her lips were chapped. A tiny split on the bottom one.
He stared at it. That tiny flaw. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Everything got quiet. Not silent. Just… focused. The wind faded. The city sounds died. There was just her face. The cold pink of her cheeks. The white cloud of her breath mixing with his.
Her hand moved. From his chest to his neck. Fingers cold on his skin. A shock.
He stopped breathing.
She was pulling him down. Or he was leaning in. Didn't matter. The space between them vanished. Heat in the frozen air.
He could smell the mint. The lavender from the blanket. Her. The sour-sweet smell of her skin.
Their lips were a millimeter apart. He felt the ghost of her breath. Warm. A promise.
This was it. The kiss. The one he'd played in his head a thousand times. On the bike. In his bed. In the middle of class.
His eyes closed.
A sound. Far below. A car door. Slam.
She flinched. Pulled back. Just an inch. A canyon.
Her eyes went wide. Not with want. With fear. She looked over his shoulder. Toward her building. Toward the world of lemon polish and expectations.
"My father," she breathed. A statement of ruin.
The moment shattered. Like glass hit with a rock. The wind rushed back in. Loud. Cruel.
She pulled away completely. Sat up. Wrapped the blanket tight around herself. A cocoon. He was outside of it. Suddenly freezing.
"He gets home early on Thursdays," she said. Voice flat. Dead. "I have to… I should go."
He couldn't speak. His lips were still buzzing with the almost. The ghost of her. It was worse than nothing. It was a taste of a meal he'd never get to eat.
She stood up. Didn't look at him. "Tomorrow."
"Aoi—"
"Tomorrow, Kenji."
She walked away. Fast. The blanket trailed behind her like a shroud. The door clicked shut. Final.
He sat alone. The cold ate through his jacket. His jeans. Into his bones.
He brought his fingers to his mouth. Pressed them against his own lips. Trying to feel the shape of hers. The warmth that never came.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a phantom limb. An ache for a touch that never landed.
He'd carry it. This almost. This interrupted sentence. This ghost.
It would haunt him longer than a real kiss ever could. A real kiss was a fact. This was a question. Forever unanswered.
What if?
What if the car hadn't slammed?
What if she wasn't afraid?
What if he'd been braver? Closed that last, stupid millimeter himself?
He sat until he was numb. A statue of regret.
When he stood, his joints cracked. The city below was a galaxy of cold, meaningless lights.
He walked home. The ghost walked with him. A shape of heat in the frozen air. A breath against his neck that wasn't there.
He'd been kissed by a ghost. And now he was haunted.