We meet Ran-san (Ran-nee-chan, he always corrects me) at the café to get our share of cookies since she'd already given the kids theirs.
I tried to decline. Honestly, putting on more carbs is not helping this body any.
And this isn't helping my conscience any. This. Edogawa-kun and his Ran-nee-chan. Even though he tells me I should get over it, because he did. But I know he didn't. And she didn't. They probably never will. Miyano Shiho's, what was the last number, 99th and 100th casualties added to the ever-growing list. Then he'll declare, again and again, in a tone that he could've used to comment on the weather, "As long as I'm the hundredth and last."
"Ai-chan, this is yours," the sweet Angel smiles, and proudly adds, "I used a low-fat recipe for this batch!" She winks. Sweet, sweet Angel.
"Thank you, Ran-san."
She's already given Kudo-kun his cookies, and, while we've yet to finish our drinks and desserts (coffee for me, just the way I like it, with Kudo-kun's cup already fetched and replaced by a large sundae ordered with Ran-san's float – 'cause she'll make a fuss when she spots both of us having coffee, duh, he explains when I snickered), she asks, "How's everything?"
They engage in a conversation of topics ranging from school, to the kids, to the professor, to camping, and to our cases, at which point I observe both pairs of eyes growing tinges of sadness as they try to skirt around the unspeakable topic, Kudo Shinichi.
It's almost too much, but I convince myself to face my sins head on. I stay this time.
Ran-san's sad smile, Kudo-kun's almost natural story-telling. Almost, since he's not looking at Ran-san's eyes, no matter how excitedly he relates the events.
Ah, I can't stay after all.
I excuse myself, thanking Ran-san for the cookies, blurting an excuse – forgetting to buy spring onions for tonight's dinner – then a, "Later," to Kudo-kun.
I walk out of the café.
I walk towards the pedestrian lane. Red light, I stop. I wait for the traffic light. It turns green, then I cross.
My chest hurts. No, my heart hurts. To face again and again the hurt I've caused the people who've given me what I couldn't even ask for. People who've given me a reason, a life. A friend, a family. Light.
Again and again. Behind the smiles, the tears.
Again and again. Again and again. Uncontrollably, I hope, I always do, – for what, I don't know… no. No lies, not anymore – I hope for happiness, not for me but for him. That I can give back, just a little, of what I've been given. With that, I will be saved. And, always, always, I try to kill a small spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could be a part of that happiness. Perhaps I could give it. Perhaps…
But no. No. It cannot be. Because he is Angel's. And I could not wish more that both sweet Angel and him could have a happy ending. The ending I erased.
Again and again.
I walk past shops, past people, past shops, past people…
"Oi!"
I walk past more shops.
"Oi!"
I stop, now looking at a television displayed on the storefront.
"Haibara," he breathes, more exasperated than tired, catching up and slowing down to halt a few paces beside me, "you didn't answer my call."
"Yep."
"I bet you heard me calling you from the other street."
"Yep."
"And it took me, what, nine times calling out to you, practically shouting, for you to stop?"
"For me to get annoyed so much that I'd stop? Yep." Frankly, I only heard two, but he didn't need to know that, really.
"Really," he deadpans.
"Yep."
My gaze never leaving the television screen, I see from my periphery his not-amused-at-all look as he finally gives in and glances at the screen as well.
"Oh shoot," he starts, "the match!"
He grabs me by the wrist, "Let's go! It starts in 20 minutes," then continues walking, "we can still make it if we run!"
This isn't good.
Speeding up, he tugs my arm, chuckling, "We're gonna miss it, slowpoke!"
This isn't good at all.
He smiles that smile.
Again and again.
Together, we run. Home.
