The Idealist
If there were a way to properly describe him, I would leave it here to take out and savor every so often, chew on the bones and gnaw out the marrow until I got my fix of words. But sometimes words aren't nearly enough to precisely pinpoint and convey the feelings.
In the way I present myself, it's clear: Emotions are my master. They control everything about me, to the point that sometimes I feel as though I unabashedly submit all self-control to them. They're like the oil to the gears running throughout my entire body; if I haven't experienced intense emotion for a while, they get rusty. Even a profoundly negative ordeal can get them working smoothly again.
But with him, I haven't needed that. He is my daily dosage of feelings.
It overwhelms him sometimes, he says, my never-ending truckload of them. But he just smiles at me in his delicate way, rustles my hair a little, and shakes his head softly.
There was this one time we were sitting on the beach, our fingers brushing like feathers, our toes deep in the grimy sand. It was high noon and hot, and we were there to take advantage of the sympathetic breeze. He laced his fingers through mine and reached them up the sky, tracing them down my palm until he cupped my fingers with his, like a potter sculpting a clay bowl.
He whispered, "You hold so much Light, Hikari-chan."
The bowl was brimming with sun. I could almost feel it scalding my skin.
He looked at me with translucent eyes—the look that sends a tremor of solid honesty pulsing through my nerves—and simply said, "Anytime you ever doubt yourself, or anytime you could ever think for a second that I would ever let anyone hurt you, just remember that to me, you always hold the sun."
A switch flipped on somewhere inside me, and this time I was the one overwhelmed with the distinct feeling of being flattered. It was a mixture of shell-shock and being frozen in ice—I could not move, but I was shaking. I tried to say something, but it was as though there was water clogging my throat. And I didn't want to gargle and sound ridiculous.
But there cannot be a bowl without the potter to craft it, I thought to myself, words unable to bubble up.
He just smiled again and leaned back to let his hair blend in with the earth, leaving my arm up in the air, admiring his handiwork. I looked up and paused for a moment, my eyes squinting at the blinding sun, but then I slowly brought it down to rest on his fingers again, warm and tingly. It was all of a sudden that I noticed the tiny chip on a nail, the wrinkles carved into my palm, the remnant pen ink pressed into my skin, but—somehow—to him, the Light blurred all of my imperfections.
Sometimes I think that Takeru-kun is more idealistic than I.
And I am the definition of The Idealist.
