Note: Please allow me to make Hachiman call his mother as Mama.

It's evening. I am standing in front of the stove, watching as the frying pan hisses when I pour oil. Tonight's dinner is hot stew comprised with an assortment of half-cooked vegetables. Not my preference, but Mama needs to eat as much healthy food as possible. In general, she needs to always be fit, considering her current condition.

Mama is sitting by the window facing over the east. I turn to look at the stove again, facing the frying pan, not looking at her so immersed in her novel, not looking at the bag filled with fluid hanging on the IV pole installed in her wheelchair.

No, I don't want to look, because I fear that she'd notice that I am pitying her again.

"Hachiman, why don't you go out and pick up girls tonight?"

Suddenly, Mama speaks and looks up from her book, raising a brow and staring at me through her reading glasses.

I spare her a glance, then look back to my stir-fry again.

"No, mom. Bad idea. Who's gonna cook dinner then?"

Placing her copy of The Setting Sun down on her lap, she carefully wheels towards me and begin to study the sizzling vegetables with deep, calculating eyes. "You're mostly done now," she gives me an approving nod. "You can go as soon as you finished."

I make a face while adding the meat. We already had this exact conversation for a thousand times, so it's only like a game for the two of us now. I stare back at her expectant eyes and quirk a brow. "But what if I actually brought home someone, what do you think she'd say if she sees that I'm still living with you?"

I'm not foreign to this concept at all. At least, I can say that I didn't fail on officially proving myself an adult – not only in financial and career terms, but also sexually. Back in Tokyo, in my own apartment, I have been with a few women already.

That is to say, I know where this will lead: she will look around for signs of girlfriends, (or in my case, parents) and the moment she sees any evidence signifying the presence of either of them — she will be gone even before you could unbutton your shirt.

Mama leans her back on her wheelchair, making creaking noises against the floor. "Hide me then," she says.

I transfer the stir-fried ingredients into the broth and look at her. "And what if she gets... a bit loud... in some way?"

"The walls are too thick to begin with, and I can always use my headphones, just in case. You can have your privacy."

It looks like she has prepared herself for this. Mama's eyes are twinkling on her wrinkled face. I realize she is incredibly excited — and when she is, that will only mean one thing:

She's actually serious about it.

I am flabbergasted because my mother is the type of person who rarely shows interest. She has always been like that ever since my father died.

But still, what exactly is there to get all hung up about all this? Mama is basically urging me to pick up girls. I have to say, but it's not a thing most mothers do. Any mother will never pester her son to bring home a girl, much less be incredibly excited about it. None that I know of, anyway.

But the thing is: I can honestly understand where my mother is coming from this issue. I am nearing thirty, but I'm still alone.

In other words: on the point where a man like me should have his own family already, I stayed single.

Don't get me wrong. I have been on relationships before. But I am a tricky fellow, and none of them lasts. It's not like they leave because I am such an asshole, or anything... it just never works. Finding companionship for me stays hard, as always.

The man I am now is not so different compared to what I was in my younger days. I may have come to appreciate people, but I still stay in a modest distance between them. I may have started to accept, but I still remind myself to not be greedy about it. Unlike then, I don't hate people anymore, since I have come to realize that it's not them I hate – but myself for expecting too much from them; years of trying to fit into society taught me that. Disappointment always comes after companionship, so I force myself to just learn to start accepting the inevitable.

But still, even though I don't find this little problem of mine to be such a big deal, I can tell that she's extremely worried about me being unmarried at this age. Frequently, she will tell me how lonely it is to grow old alone. There even times when she will introduce me to random bachelorettes I can't even give a damn about.

On top of that, sometimes she will compare Komachi's married life to mine — which stings a lot.

Maybe this was the reason why Shizuka-sensei was so sensitive about this issue back in high school. I mean, you're not actually sad about it, but the people around you keeps pointing out that you are, so you end up being miserable at the end of the day.

Oh, and by the way, Shizuka-sensei is now a mother of two. As mythical as it may seem, she managed to coerce someone into marriage two years after my high school graduation. I can even remember clearly when she said that she's happy to be married before me right on her wedding day. Little did she know that I was on my way on following her damned footsteps.

The enticing smell wafts out from the casserole, and I lower the fire. Mama is watching me the whole time. "And just like always, mom," I say. "I will stay as a man who has better things to do than hooking up with random girls on a Friday night."

I pour a portion of the stew on two bowls and check on the rice-cooker. Then I place Mama's medicines beside her plate while setting the table. All of this has already been a practiced chore for me, because it has already been five months since I started.

Although we are all trying to stay positive, I know for a fact that the fate of my parents has turned for the worse. It's already been three years since my father died on a car accident, and that is the main reason why Mama is as dull as she is now.

On top of that, she even has ovarian cancer, stage three.

We are all devastated to hear the news, but life must go on. My mother hates the idea of being hospitalized, so she requested us to just let her stay at home. That is where my role comes in. The first choice would be for Komachi to move in and take care of her. But at that time, my sister was three-months pregnant on her first child, so even though she was willing to do it, recruiting her as Mama's personal nurse is not an option.

At that time, I was in Tokyo, living the shitty time of my life in my apartment. I was working on a publishing company and was being paid nicely. But nevertheless, I am alone, so I nominated myself to take care of Mama instead; I resigned my job, moved back here in Chiba and started a new home-based work to give more attention to my mother.

I'm aware that signing up for this basically means I'm throwing all of my chances away: Better job, better life... or even marriage.

But Mama is way more important than all of that, so I don't regret it at all. I would rather die unmarried than turn my back on her.

The table is set, and I push Mama's wheelchair beside my seat. My mother hates it, but she needs to be assisted most of the time. She is nowhere frail, but her chemo sessions require her to be treated delicately. It pains me to see her being restrained a lot, but I try to not dwell in it further.

Our table is a small rectangular one, accompanied by a pair of chairs. Mama sits on a wheelchair all the time, so I'm the only one sitting on one of them. While I scoop rice for her, I notice Mama looking at the empty seat parallel from us.

"Seems like Saki-chan's not coming over for dinner tonight," she says, her tone sounding dispirited.

Saki-chan. Kawasaki Saki. The exact same girl in a blue ponytail I have been classmates with on high school. We have never seen each other again after graduation, so it surprised me to find out that she lives alone on an apartment right next to Mama when I moved here.

After living here long enough, I realize that she and my mother are on extremely good terms. On weekends, she will always stop by and cook breakfast for her – which also includes me now. So in exchange for that, I offered her to have dinner with the two of us every weekdays since I noticed that she often comes home late from work and probably has no time to even cook.

Along with my mother's persistence, she agreed, and later on, we find the three of us becoming used to eating together.

"Seems like it. Probably on overtime again."

But lately, I am noticing that she has been carrying overtimes a little too often than usual, thus, making her skip dinner more often too, at the same time.

"I can't understand that woman," I say after testing the broth. "I mean, why is she still overworking herself? It's not like she still need to support her siblings, right?"

Kawasaki lives alone, and both of her parents have passed away years ago, leaving only herself and her siblings. Taishi already has his own job while supporting Keika, who pursues college with a scholarship. Their income is stable, and as far as I can tell, they don't have any problems in terms of money. At best, she already completed her role as the eldest sibling, so she doesn't have to work so hard anymore.

Mama takes a sip from the bowl I handed to her and stares at me with a forlorn smile. "I'm guessing she's just lonely and wants to distract herself," she says.

Having nothing to say to that, I keep silent. Mama puts down the spoon and gingerly downs the soup directly from the bowl. I begin to eat my own food, looking at her every now and then and making sure she isn't straining her arms too much.

For a moment, I ponder about what she had said about the possibility of Kawasaki doing all this because of loneliness. It's not that I know a lot of things about her, but I am certain as to what loneliness feels like because I have been there. Mama can be right, and maybe Kawasaki is overworking to distract herself, but even if she is, it's not like I can do anything about it.

Mama puts down her bowl, leans on her wheelchair and huffs a deep sigh. "Hachiman," she calls. "You're doing the same too."

Albeit a little surprised from that accusation, I manage to throw a questioning glance at her. Mama folds her hands atop her lap.

"You're always slaving for hours and hours in your computer," she trails off, looking guilty while averting her eyes, "...and on taking care of me."

My eyes automatically widen in astonishment. I expected her to accuse me for not properly taking care of her, since my home-based work on software designing sometimes takes more time than I anticipate. I thought she feels alienated by me working on the same house as her.

I thought I'm not being a son good enough for her.

But I am wrong. Rather than thinking about herself, she worries about me instead. She is guilty that she has to be sick so I have to take care of her. My Mama has stage-three cancer, yet she still worries about taking much of my time.

A bitter smile grazes my lips, and I couldn't stop myself from clasping her hands in mine. They are cracked, bony and cold; hands of a retired laborer.

I enclose my hands tight to warm them.

"I'm not slaving on you, mom," I say, with as much conviction as possible. "It's my role as your son, and I chose to do this."

Mama gently shakes her head, swaying her white hair with the motion. "But it's not like you want to do this."

So we have come to this. Mama's doctor once said that she will soon reach her estrangement phase. The period when instead of worrying about herself, she begins to feel guilty of accepting help. Little by little, my mother is starting to think less of herself and more of ourselves. Lately, she has been asking a lot about Komachi's pregnancy, but never of her own condition.

Her doctor told me that I have to make her feel hope at times like this, that I have to cheer her up, being the one whom she spends most of her time with. If that is the case, that means I have to be her personal therapist for a minute: that I have to be as gentle as possible while telling her that I am not doing this out of obligation.

But I know Mama more than anyone, and she will not like it if I suddenly treat her like a child on a fit of tantrum. Being gentle will only worsen her feelings — and besides, being her son, she knows me very well.

She knows that I am not a gentle person in nature.

So instead of abiding to the advice that would most likely make her succumb into depression even more, I choose a completely different approach.

"Oh yes, it's not like I want to do this, huh?"

Sarcasm is always the one I am good at, and Mama knows that.

"In the first place, I'm just taking care of an old woman who fed and raised me until I landed my first job," I smirk, taking note that Mama is smiling slightly. "Ridiculous. Perhaps you're right. Maybe I should be out there hitting on girls instead of taking care of my own mother."

This is the very first time I talk this way to her, and even though I already am an adult, I still feel scared that she would scold me for it. But Mama didn't. Instead, take her hands from mine and wrap it at my own hands, tight. Her hands are warm.

"Look, mom, we already went through this a lot of times, but if it will make you feel better," I pull one of my hands from her and smooth her thinning hair, "I'll remind you that Komachi will do exactly the same only if she isn't having your grandson right now."

Mama smiles even wider, and I am amazed at how the mere mention of the word 'grandson' has so much effect on her.

"Point is: it may be tiresome, or even extremely dull most of the time, but we will do it, because we want to do this for you – not just because we have to. And that's because we love you, mom, and I'm sure you know that, at least, because we've been trying so hard to make you feel that way since then."

Mama is silent for a minute. She pulls her hand back on her lap, still smiling. I awkwardly look away and resume eating, sending glances at her every minute. There's a smile on her face, but also a lot of concern in it. I hate it when Mama does that, it makes me feel like a helpless child.

"I'm only worried about you, Hachiman..." she suddenly says."You're not getting any younger, yet you're still alone."

"I have you, mom."

"I appreciate that, but you know that my time is nearing. I can't stay here forever," she shakes her head. "I just want to make sure you have someone else by your side before I die."

"Then don't die."

Mama lets out a small, pained laugh. "That's a very cruel thing to ask, Hachiman."

"It's because you're being cruel too, mom."

My mother widen her eyes at that, her smile fading as she looks at me with a face that only shows pure wonderment. She blanks for a moment, looking at some far off place.

"Selfless, compassionate and stubborn..." she mumbles, then looks at me with a proud smile, "exactly like your father."

"You're joking, right? I can see dad in anything but that."

"Oh, you just misunderstood him," she shakes her head and pushes the now empty plate away from her. "Your father was so affectionate when we were still young. Later in the years, he still was, only did he became a bit terrible at showing it."

Mama looks at me with a warm expression, then brushes the strands of hair covering my face.

"Now that I think about it, you look more like him now."

I am left speechless, not at all sure what to think about being compared to Dad, of all people. Earlier in life, he used to be so difficult to be with, in some way, and it's hard to think of good times I had with him. Now that I start thinking about it: I only know Dad as my father, but I never knew him as a person.

"Mom?"

Without thinking, I call her, and she hums in response. At least, the slightly tense atmosphere from earlier is now gone, so I don't have to worry about upsetting her. I know I should leave this topic for later, but I feel like it's a good time to ask.

"Can you tell me about dad?"

She raise her graying brows, and I clarify. "I mean, how he was when it's just the two of you, together."

"You mean before we got married?"

I nod in response and look at her expectantly. I am excited because I have always been dying to ask her this. Love and how it blossomed is not a thing I used to dwell on in the past, so even though I already have a bit of personal experience, this whole affair is still fresh to me. Not to mention that it will be a story of my own parents.

Mama straightens in her wheelchair and clears her throat.

"Ah. Well then, you may not know this, but your father was a marvelous writer back when we were still on college. That's where I met him..."

Her smile reflect a thousand memories, and I smile in return.

"He used to write romantic poems for me... rich, and pure, and such range... he could express his soul with everything he writes, whenever I read the poems meant for me I felt like my life meant more than mere biology... he could really express it, he understood structure and he could analyze exactly what it was about a piece of written work that had to be rendered just so... he was a very compassionate person, your father. He brought that out in other people. After he died I don't think I ever really felt anything again."

Her smile slips a little bit, but it came back almost instantly.

"But you asked about him, not about me. He was kind, and he was a great artist; you don't often find that those go together. Your father helped a lot of people become happy when we were young, and he was happy himself. He was grumpy in nature, but he enjoyed life."

I notice that she is looking at their photo placed atop the book shelf while speaking, so I take it and hand it to her. Mama holds the frame like it's a precious treasure. "I only saw him cry thrice: once when I accepted this ring," she says, showing her wrinkled right hand, "and the other two when I gave birth to you and Komachi."

Dumbfounded, I can only stare at Dad, smiling, while wrapping a hand around Mama's shoulder in the picture.

"I always thought dad caught the big fish by marrying you," I tell Mama, who is running a finger across Dad's face. "But it seems you were more lucky for marrying him."

"Well, we were and we weren't." Mama looks up from the photo. "One minute we all had everything we could dream of, and the next he was dead and I have cancer."

I wince, trying not to look away.

"But don't you think," I say. "that it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?"

My mother looks at me as if she sees another person. "I have often wondered about that. Do you believe in that, Hachiman?"

"Yes," I nod. "I always do."

To my surprise, she playfully jabs my biceps while giggling. "If you know that, then what do you think you're doing? Just bring home a bride-to-be already."

"That's easier said than done, mom."

"It's not easy," she nods. "But it is possible. You can always start by taking small, watchful steps. Don't rush things, but grab the opportunity when it knocks."

"...What do you think, mom?" I ask, looking at the window and at the small apartment next door. "Do you think it will work out with her?"

"You won't know if you won't try," Mama smiles encouragingly. "Who knows, maybe she's searching for that same thing too."

We both finish eating at the same time, and Mama resumes to reading her book until I am done doing the dishes. I push her wheelchair towards the sink and we both brush our teeth. Then I wheel her into her room where, despite of her usual refusal, I end up helping her change into her nightgown too.

She lies in the bed and I tuck her in, hang an obese bag of liquid medication for her hormone therapy on the IV pole beside her bed and kiss her goodnight in the forehead before leaving the room.

I head straight to the kitchen again and secure the leftovers in a container before stacking it on the fridge. It's 8:32 and the road outside is orange under the lights of the streetlamps. Late it may be, but I still take my jacket behind the door, change into my sneakers and quietly head outside.

Outside it's cold. Clenching my fist on my jacket-pocket, I walk down the porch and pass through the gate. Our house stayed exactly the same since I moved out, but there is still a notable difference on the houses surrounding it.

For example, I can't remember seeing a line of one-story houses beside our house when I was young. As far as I can remember, it's only a wide patch of empty land. It seems construction had been done right after I moved out and these apartments were built. On one of those apartments, right beside our own house, is Kawasaki Saki's domain. The windows are shut and the inside of the house is pitch black. It's clear she is not home yet.

I do some stretching. Since I do most of my work in mornings and spend time with Mama afterwards, I set this time of the day to do my exercise routine.

Just like my mother said, I am not getting any younger, so I need to be in a better shape unless I want to end up like her. Her tragic turn in the health department made me realize that literally anything can happen anytime, so I try to keep myself fit as much as possible. Running is the best option for me, and I do most of it in the deserted streets at night.

After I finished warming up, I breathe in and set off running. The chilly breeze blows against my face, but having done this same routine many times before, I don't feel so cold. In fact, the numbing feeling proves to be a good distraction to the bugging feeling I have on my chest.

I can no longer avert my eyes to the fact that I couldn't go on with this life forever. Maybe soon, but the will come when I will have to wait for someone in the altar. Back then, I used to think of marriage as a curse – the downfall of most men. It's not like I hate the idea entirely since I also aspired at some point to be married at a rich woman who will let me live my house-husband dreams (which I failed miserably on, obviously).

Mama wants to see me get married: not because she thinks I'm being too old to stay single, but because she might not be able to see it. My mother is strong-willed, and I am doing my best to keep her healthy. But regardless of that, she still has cancer, and at some point – dying.

She said it herself for the first time: Mama wants to make sure I have someone else by my side before she dies.

That is what she thinks. But what about me?

What do I think? What do I feel?

It may be a bit too late to ask: But can I really love again?

I had been to relationships before, but most of them were just a blur of different colors of hair, pairs breasts and legs. For these past years, I had been a hypocrite of my own ideals. I pursued a lot of relationships, knowing it's far from being genuine.

How long has it been since I felt something genuine, anyway?

I know since I can remember it clearly: it's from high school.

I loved a person named Yukinoshita Yukino.

I loved a person and failed to tell her how I feel.

The Service Club has already been a thing of the past. That page didn't end in the worst way possible, but it still ended. We all embarked on our own paths and pursued our own dreams.

Nevertheless, I finally moved on from that affair. It no longer stung the way it did before. Maybe some part of it is holding me back, but I mostly got over it already. It felt good to have a single glimpse of that genuine thing I seek of even though it didn't last long.

At least it left a memory: a bittersweet aftertaste of the past.

By the moment I realize it, I already ran a bit too much. My legs are throbbing and I am very thirsty. It's a stupid mistake, but I forgot to bring my water tumbler. A convenience store can be seen nearby, and I trudge my way towards it.

Then...

"Hikigaya?"

A familiar voice calls out my name.

Kawasaki comes out of the convenience store.

Her long blue hair, tied in its usual ponytail, glimmers under the orange glint of the streetlamps. She is wearing her work clothes: sharp as a tack on blouse and slacks, with her blazer hanging on her shoulder.

"Overtime?" I ask.

She nods sheepishly, her face curtained in the veil of smoke that has emanated from her mouth. Somewhere at that moment, I hear a sound of low rumbling coming from her.

Or coming at her stomach, more specifically.

"I have some leftovers at home," I offer, resisting the urge to smirk. "Just reheat it."

Her face reddens, but smiles anyway. "Can't say no to that," she says while dropping her cigarette on the ground and stubbing her heels on it. She is aware that I despise the idea of smoking, so she avoids doing so when I am around. She hands me a can of beer. "How's your mom today?"

I contemplate it for a moment, but decide to accept it anyway.

"Perfectly fine," I say, walking back to the direction of my home. Kawasaki follows beside me. "In fact, she even forced me to go out and pick up some girls tonight."

Her face is suspicious. "...is that what you're about to do?"

I couldn't stop myself from raising my voice. "No! Of course not... jee, you should know better than that."

For a moment, she looks like she's about to sigh in relief, but she ends up yawning hugely instead. She lets out a long drawn and exhausted breath while covering her mouth. I find the way she tried to suppress it first, only to give up quite funny.

"You look tired."

"No shit, Sherlock. I'm beat."

Usually, I would take that as her indirect plea to let her off.

But this time, I want her to stay.

I want to be selfish just for tonight.

"Kawasaki..." My voice trail off. I'm a bit anxious. "Why are you still overworking yourself?"

She snickers. "Because I'm not a lazy bum like you, Hikigaya."

Her voice is uncertain, and she is not looking my way.

"You know that's not the only case."

I stop from walking, and she does, too.

"Maybe I just want to..." she mumbles. "You know I used to work a lot in high school. Maybe I just got the hang of it."

I allow a smirk to come out. "What, like a workaholic?"

"Something like that..."

We start walking again. Kawasaki slides a hand on her grocery bag and takes out a can of beer.

"Nope." I took the plastic bag from her as well as the can in her hands. She looks at me as if I'm a mugger. "You gotta eat first."

Kawasaki sighs, but nods begrudgingly.

We walk in silence until our houses are on view. I want to say something, but failed to act, so when she gestures for the plastic bag in my hands, I finally force myself to speak.

"Mom guessed that maybe you're just distracting yourself."

Kawasaki raises a well-groomed brow. "...Of what?"

"Of loneliness," I say, looking away. The stars twinkle brightly above us. "She said I'm doing the same too, distracting myself from it by working and working..."

"—and taking care of her, I bet," she supplies with a bitter smile.

For a moment, I feel bad for Mama again. I stare at her window from the left side of the house. Everything that has happened to her was awful: from dad's tragic death to her damned cancer. What did she ever do to deserve this?

"Maybe she's right..." Kawasaki says, finally taking the plastic bag from my hands. She becomes quite melancholic while saying that. "Maybe we really are just lonely, after all."

"Maybe so..."

I am dumbstruck. She thinks of me as an equal. A kindred spirit.

We are both lonely, she said.

It has already been a very long time since I feel so nervous and excited at the same time. It might be years, but I can no longer recall now. Most of the girls I have been with failed to make me feel like that. Perhaps that is the reason why none of them lasts. I am not searching for companionship all along, I am searching for someone who suffers from the same hell as me.

All this time, I was searching for someone who can hear my cries of help, and Kawasaki heard it, because somewhere down the line – she was wailing too.

What am I even waiting on? I have lived through this same hell for years. I don't need someone to lift me up the threshold.

I can pull myself out on my own.

In fact, I can even bring out someone else with me.

Right now, I feel like taking that first small, watchful step.

Both figuratively and literally, I take a step forward.

"Kawasaki... will you—"

"—Do you have plans tomorrow night?"

Don't get it wrong, I was not the one who asked that.

"...What did you just say?" I ask, tilting my head to the side.

"I'm asking if you have anything important to do tomorrow night," says Kawasaki, not skipping a beat.

"...What for?"

"I'm absolutely amazed on how you can be such a complete idiot sometimes. Do I still have to explain it to you?"

I politely nod.

Kawasaki sighs. "I'm inviting you for a dinner."

"Y-you mean... like a date?" I feel my face heating up.

"Wait, are you—" she clamps her mouth with her hand, shaking with laughter. "No, you really are blushing!"

My face heats up even more. I have never been so embarassed over my whole life. "Shut up. You just surprised me..." I snort, shaking my head. "Oh well, I guess it works either way."

Staring back at her expectant eyes, I nod.

"All right. We'll go out for dinner tomorrow then."

I tell her to wait for a minute while I come inside to take the leftovers. Somewhere at that moment, I find myself grinning stupidly.

This is just the start, the first step, but right now, I feel like there is hope. Our feelings for each other are not that deep yet to begin with, perhaps even superficial, and I am sure it's far from love as of now. My mother said it will not be an easy road, but I will still hope, but I will still try...

Because she also said it is possible.

~※~

I slip inside the house as quiet as possible. The clock says 9:45 and it's late. The entire house is quiet except for my breathing and muffled footsteps. Maneuvering myself across the dark, I head straight through the kitchen and brush my teeth for the second time tonight. My breath smells like beer. I open the fridge and down a glass of water, then I notice the light on my mother's bedroom.

I walk towards it and quietly twist the knob.

The lampshade is on, and Mama is like a lonely nocturnal in her bed. I smile at her and she nods at me. Her bed is so huge I can actually lie beside her. I sit on her left side and grasp her hands; they are cold again, and slightly shaking.

"You need something, mom?"

She shakes her head and smiles.

"You look happy. Did something good happen?"

I curse myself internally. Trust her to see through me like glass.

Not to mention that I am probably still grinning stupidly.

I try to remove the idiotic expression on my face. "Well, actually, yes... but you have to sleep."

Instead of listening to me, Mama tries to prop herself into leaning against the headrest. I stand up and assist her.

"Tell me about it," says Mama with a stubborn look. She looks like a child requesting for a bedtime story.

I scratch the back of my neck. "Ah. You see, I kind of planned to invite Kawasaki to a dinner tomorrow..."

"About time, Hachiman."

I swallow, hard. Mama has given me the most vibrant smile she has ever made in years. I feel like a saint looking at her. How long has it been since my mother smiled like that?

Mama raises one brow, still smiling. "I can sense the but there, Hachiman."

"But... I didn't the chance to..." I trail off, and blood drains from Mama's already pale face. I get scared so I add hastily, "Because she asked me out first."

And just like that, my Mama who became so dull after losing her husband, my Mama who is fighting with cancer, and my Mama who is on her alienation phase close her eyes and her shoulder shakes. Tears fill her eyes, and she laughs. She laughs heartily while clutching her stomach. Anyone would find her cackling unpleasant, but it feels great in my ears.

I am jubilant, because after years of being miserable, I made my Mama laugh again.

After a good minute of laughter, Mama wipes her eyes.

"That was very much like her," she says, and I realize that my mother must have known a lot about Saki-chan.

I snort, nodding. "Very much like her."

Mama reach out for my hands and grasp them.

"I'm so happy to hear that, Hachiman..." she mumbles with tears in her eyes. "Now I don't have to worry about you being alone anymore..."

My heart stops, and I feel my eyes stinging so suddenly.

"Don't say something like that, mom, ever again..." I say, laying her down on the bed and kissing her forehead again. She close her eyes and soon, she is sleeping peacefully.

I can't bring myself to leave the room, so I sit on the small chair beside the window. Tears fall down on my cheeks and I feel so cold, so scared. Mama's breathing becomes laborous, and it scares me even further. I raise my hands to my ears to cover them. Each sound in this room scares me.

I look at Mama's sleeping form, my hands in my ears and tears in my cheeks. "...Don't leave," I squeak, and I fall asleep.

~※~

Now it is dawn. I look out the window facing over the east. I sit in the same chair, by the window, facing the bed, but not looking, not looking at Mama so effaced in her big bed, not looking at the pill bottles and the spoons and the glasses and the IV pole with the bag hanging obese with fluid and the empty wheelchair in the corner. I am looking out the window, toward the east.

I don't want to look because I am afraid.

A few birds are singing. I can hear the doves that live in the wisteria waking up. The world is gray. Slowly, color leaks into it, not rosy-fingered but like a slowly spreading stain of blood, one moment lingering at the horizon and then flooding the front porch and then golden light, and then a blue sky, and then all the colors vibrant in their assigned places: the bermuda grass, the roses, the white salvia, the marigolds, all shimmering in the new morning dew like glass. Mama's flowers are at their best in the mornings. A crow flies across the grass. Its shadow flies under it, and meets it as it lands under the window and caws, once. Light finds the window, and creates my hands, my body. I feel heavy in the small chair.

Before I notice it, the sun is up.

I close my eyes. The air conditioner purrs. I'm cold, and I get up and walk to the other window, and turn it off. Now the room is silent. I walk to the bed. Mama is still. The laborious breathing that has haunted my dreams has stopped. Her mouth is open slightly and her eyebrows are raised as though in surprise, although her eyes are closed. She could be singing in her sleep. I kneel by the bed, I pull back the covers and lay my ear against her heart. Her skin is warm. Nothing. No heart beats, no blood moves, no breath inflates the sails of her lungs. Just silence.

I gather up her reeking, wasted body into my arms, and she is perfect, she is my own perfect beautiful Mama again, for just a moment, even as her bones jut against my chest and her head lolls, even as her cancer-laden belly mimics fecundity she rises up in memory shining, laughing, released: she is free.

The front door clicks and there are footsteps in the hall.

Mama's door opens and Kawasaki is there, holding a casserole in her hands. I smell porridge and I am sobbing.

"Hikigaya..."

I lower Mama back to the pillows, smooth her nightgown, her hair. Mama looks peaceful, unrestrained.

"She's gone..."

Note: I know I really suck at writing titles, so please forgive me.

To those of you who expected that ending: congratulations, you finally got used to my crazy shenanigans. But to those who failed to: well, sorry, that's all I can say. It may seem that I'm trying so hard to always add death to all of my stories, but rest assured, I am not. This story is far from the deaths in LOOP where every death is angsty and brutal. In this one, I tried to portray how exactly I see death as a part of life, not as something you can use as a cliche trope in writing. Death is beautiful in some way when you look at it closely. I am not an emo by all means, but I appreciate death as a way of freeing people more than being something to be scared of. I hope this story helped me on proving my point. Thanks for reading.