He tilts his head back, closing his eyes. His hands are fisting his trousers, the white of his knuckles stark against the red of his uniform. They're going to crease at this rate, she thinks, wanting to open his hands, to fill the empty spaces between fingers like he's filled the one gaping inside her with words (you're you, not anyone else).
"Shouma-kun," she murmurs.
His jaw tightens; so do his hands. She feels the distance between them like a physical ache. The train compartment isn't empty but it might as well be for all that anyone else matters. It's just her, Shouma, and the ghosts that lurk in the green of his closed eyes.
I know something about ghosts, she doesn't tell him, because there's no point in telling him something he already knows. I've only been trying to become one my entire life.
The knowing is part of the problem, she thinks, curling her fingers into her palms, digging in her nails because Shouma's not the only one good at self-inflicted punishment. It doesn't cut half as deep as his silence does and her lungs fill and collapse with a shuddering breath. The muscle in his jaw works and Ringo almost lets herself hope. She pleads with him silently, her throat too tight for words.
I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Look at me please.
Shouma's eyes stay closed.
The tunnel stretches on and on.
