"I love you too," I say, my voice barely a whisper.

Hours before we had fought, argued about one of us keeping secrets from the other. No bonus points for guessing who the liar - by admission admittedly - was. I had imagined that catastrophe of miscommunication was the end for us, but in defiance of all sane reasoning Hisao not only came back, but didn't leave after I confessed my crimes to him. It really makes no sense. No one should tell you they love you, after you admit to accidentally killing someone.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks softly, "The accident I mean?"

Not really, speaking about it does not make it easier. But if anyone deserves the unabridged story, Hisao does.

"Could you close the door?" I reply after a moment of fruitless consideration.

With the smallest of nods Hisao climbs out of bed. His hair still glistens softly from his journey through the rain. Scooting back against the wall I make myself comfortable, while my boyfriend flicks on the lamp residing on my desk and closes the door with a gentle click.

He sits quietly while I consider where I can possibly begin to explain this mess. Picking at the bandages around my stump I recall my first turbulent year of high school. Context is important, he needs to understand how what happened to me connects to the rest of my life. To most people, I imagine, having a hand violently ripped off would be the worst part of their year. But that had been a short - admittedly very painful - shock when compared to the battery of abuse I suffered at the hands of my classmates. Everyday had been the same endless stream of snide comments and giggles poorly hidden behind interlaced fingers.

Even now, after everything that has happened, it's hard to talk about what that first week was like, what I took for me to roll out of bed each morning. I pride myself on being tough, for being able to endure where others back out. But that year broke me, left me feeling weak and pathetic, constantly at the mercy of people who seemed to have so much more than me to begin with. That's why I've never wanted to talk about it. The things that happened with my parents, they feel like stuff that happened to me, while the bullying... That was something I let happen to myself.

"That's horrible," his response is not apologetic, but scathing. Anger on my behalf I can deal with. "Why did they treat you like that?" His question is more rhetorical than accusatory.

Shrugging I watch the rain conjoin and divide as it slides down my misted window. The storm is fatiguing, but still has some fight left in it. "I was just different from them I guess, I was poor for one thing and, like, the only black girl there."

My skin colour is another subject I hardly touch. Though, not for the same reasons. It just seems such a non-issue, the only people who notice are hypocrites who preach the purity of the Japanese race while simultaneously enjoying the benefits of a dozen cultures distinctly un-Japanese in origin. It's yet another in the long list of things that make Yamaku magical. There is no standard for anything here, everyone is different, which in a very real way makes everyone the same.

"I can't believe anyone would taunt you for things you can't control."

"Can't you?" I say, raising an eyebrow.

He pauses for a moment, before letting out a slow breath, "I just hate it, how someone could treat you like that."

"Such is life," I reply with a shrug. "As my grandfather used to say."

I continue with my story, explaining about Tatsuo and his monstrous pick up truck.

"Did you know him well?" Hisao asks when I tell him about being picked out of the crowd.

"No, that was the first time we had ever spoken."

"And you just got into a near stranger's truck?" He replies incredulously.

"He was like, the coolest guy in the entire neighbourhood. You have no idea what it was like for him to even notice you." I say, cursing how defensive I sound. "Look, all I wanted back then was to be popular. It's stupid, it was stupid - but, yeah… I got in his truck."

Hisao nods slowly. I don't know if I'm trying to justify my actions to him, or myself.

"I'm sorry, it just seemed strange," he says. "Please continue."

Well, here goes nothing. I tell him as much as I can remember. Watching his face turn from shock at the armed men chasing Tatsuo into his truck. To horror as I recall how I woke up next to the scared boy's lifeless corpse. I don't really know if that part of the story actually happened. The countless times that scene popped up in my dreams it was always accompanied by something fantastical - something that could only ever happen in a dream.

Like it even matters.

The important fact. The fact that I was driving. Is clear without question, so I might have stayed blacked out until I got to hospital, or I may well have awoken to a trail of blood dripping from an ear framed by a silver buzz cut. But it does not matter in the slightest.

"That must have been awful," my boyfriend says consolingly, "but it sounds like an accident to me. Like you said, you never meant to hurt him."

"No, but I still did. I did far worse than hurt him, I killed him."

"Well the police must not have felt that way? Otherwise you wouldn't still be here right?"

Ah. It feels like my stomach lining has been replaced with icy lead. It all makes sense now. Obviously Hisao hasn't recoiled in disgust - yet - because he's only heard half of the story. The key details, the context to my horror, is lost on him.

"I…" Stopping before my sentence has even begun I take a deep breathe, rubbing my sweaty palm on the pillow. I don't think I can do this. My throat is rebelling against speaking the truth that will drive Hisao away from me. If you love him, you will tell him.

"I lied to the police," I say, tasting bile in my mouth. I stare hard at my knee, looking anywhere but at him. "There was confusion about who was driving, I couldn't remember for the longest time, and when I did I lied in my official statement to the police. I told them Tatsuo had been the one driving."

I'm not surprised when Hisao does not reply, throwing the room into a crushing silence. Only the noise of the wind outside intrudes on the oppressive nothingness. I half expect him to hit me. Hell, I would hit me. But he doesn't, and together we sit side by side separated by a chasm of uncertainty.

"You... You lied? To the police?"

I nod miserably. Now he get it, now he understands.

"I want to tell the truth," I say softly. "I'm going to, it's just… I haven't had the courage to."

"You're going to hand yourself in?" He sounds genuinely surprised.

"I have to, it's why I can't come to university." I look up, startled by his response. The look on his face matches the one he wore when inspecting my injured stump; worried.

Massaging his eyes with his palms he continues, "But surely, it will be worse now than if you had just admitted it when you remember, right?"

"Probably," I say.

"Then, I don't understand."

What?

"You don't think I should be punished for what I've done?" I ask incredulously.

"I don't know, maybe?" He pauses, rubbing the back of neck. "Some people are never punished for their crimes, but you lost your hand. That's punishment enough isn't it?"

"How can you say that?"

I'm supposed to be weeping as the last of whatever love Hisao felt for me fades from his radiant eyes. Instead I'm actually having to defend my decision to do the right thing. Nothing ever, ever goes the way I expect it to.

"Because I don't want to lose you," he says quickly. "Isn't there some other way?"

"There isn't." I sigh sadly. "I'm not doing this for Tatsuo, or even his family. I need to do this for me. I don't want to lose you either, I love you. But, I can't live like this either."

"What do you think will happen?" He asks, his voice quiet now.

"I get arrested I guess, then a trial, then prison." I'm surprised by how matter of fact I sound, listing off each horrible event that lies in my immediate future. The road behind me stretches back for miles, a confused mass of twists and turns, forks and junctions. But the road ahead is clear, if not ominous. Every path leads straight to a nightmarish concrete cell, now clearer than it has ever been before.

"But wait," Hisao says suddenly, a new light in his eyes. "You said it took you a year to remember this stuff? How do you even know it's what really happened? What if this is some kind of survivor's guilt?"

"I just know." I shrug.

"That's not very scientific." He frowns. "Do you have any evidence?"

"I'm telling you about the worst thing that's ever happened to me, the worst thing I have ever done to another person, and you are asking for evidence?" Despite everything I'm starting to feel a little disgruntled. It's true I don't have any real evidence that I was behind the wheel - not even the police have that - but I know, every single molecule in my being knows. That should be what matters.

"You are talking about destroying the rest of your life over something you remembered a year after a traumatic head injury. You won't be able to go to university or get a good job." He pauses, before continuing sadly, "We won't be able to see each other."

What if he's right? No, I can't think like that. If I can't trust my own memories what do I really have left? In fact if he were correct and my recollection of events were tainted by some kind of survivor'sguilt, it would be so much worse. How could I trust anything? What if everything I remembered about my past were simply false images, produced by a insecure and guilt ridden mind?

"Look, I don't know what's going to happen. All I know is what I need to do." I sigh slowly, "I understand if you want to walk away."

"I don't think I can, unless you want me to?"

"No… I don't want that," I mumble.

I should. I should want him to move on with his life, find someone who isn't about to drag him into a world of police and carnage. But I can't. I need him by my side, for better or worse. Slowly I lean my head against his arm, he seems surprised for a moment, but recovers himself and plants a soft kiss on the top of my head.

The warm glow of the whisky is now just a faded memory, leaving behind it a dry throat and a throbbing sting in my cut stump. Blah, it's too late too see the nurse. Yawning into a cupped hand I close my eyes, just enjoying the feeling of Hisao beside me. I may not get many more moments like this.

"You should try and get some sleep," Hisao says unexpectedly.

"I'm not all that tired," I say, though with the adrenaline from our conversation fading I do feel a bit drossy.

Without a word Hisao pulls the covers over my exposed legs, before wrapping his arm around me. He's still here. The thought wraps around me like a warm blanket. Perhaps there's a chance for us… I find myself yawning again. After all.

— — —

I groggily wake up. It feels like hours have passed, but at the same time as if I had not slept at all. At least I didn't have any nightmares. The illuminated red figures on my beside table tell me it's just gone five in the morning. The room seems brighter than normal, and it takes my still half asleep brain a few seconds to realise Hisao is at my desk, hunched over something with the lamp on.

Huh, he didn't leave?

There's a sharp sting in my stump as I use it to push myself into a sitting position, I had forgotten about punching the mirror. Blinking I rub the sleep from my eyes. What the hell has he done to my room? The pile of broken glass has been cleared away, as has the overflowing waste paper basket that sits beside my desk. Even the graveyard of dead and crumpled clothes has been tidied, freeing up more floor space than I can remember seeing in the last two years.

"Hisao?" I call softly, curling my legs up to my chest and pulling the lavishly warm covers tighter around me.

With a startled lurch he swivels around in my desk chair. "Hey, you're awake."

"W… What happened?" I ask, an unexpected yawn causing my voice to shake.

"I tidied up a bit, honestly Miki, you are messiest person I know." His joints creak audibly in a crescendo as he rises, culminating with a loud crack as he stretches his arms above his head.

"You sound decidedly unhealthy," I observe with a worried frown. I should have made sure he was comfortable before selfishly falling asleep.

"It's just testament to how much effort cleaning your room required," he grins sitting down beside me with a creek, though this time the bed is the culprit.

His face is thrown into sharp relief by the lamp, a complex pattern of shadows and pale skin. Reaching out tentatively I run my thumb across the rough slightly greasy skin above his cheeks, turning his head away, perhaps in protest, reveals just how dark the bags under his eyes really are. Oh Hisao…

"Have you slept at all?" I ask, unable to keep the dread from my voice.

"I'm fine," He says, taking my hand in his. "How's your arm?"

Stupid distraction, stop distracting me.

"It hurts," I admit, "but it's fine, honestly. You should get into bed."

Using my stump I move the covers aside, letting in a huff of horribly cold air but giving my boyfriend a good view at least. Even if the prospect of sleep isn't exciting, I should be right?

"After you go and see the nurse." He says sternly, dropping my hand to reach for my bloodied stump.

"But it's very cold outside, and very warm in here." I protest, allowing him to look at my arm from various angles. Though what he intends to deduce from the action is anyone's guess.

I feel strangely alive and carefree this morning. It's like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and for the first time in a long while I'm able to breathe freely again. Of course a more apt metaphor would be the weight now dangling high above my head, ready to crush me at a moment's notice. Disquieted by my own thought process I push the image to the back of my mind, refocusing on my boyfriend's face.

"I don't want to sleep until I know you're safe." he repeats stubbornly.

"Fine, fine," I groan, "I will go to the Nurse's office, if you promise to get a sick note and spend the day sleeping."

"Can't promise to sleep all day, I have homework." He smirks, primitively celebrating his victory.

"You at least try and go to sleep," I reply, "and I get a kiss before we leave, that's my final offer."

"Deal."

As one we both reach for each other, our lips meeting somewhere in the middle.

I'm sure the nurse can wait, logic dictates I should enjoy every kiss while I can. And I've never been anything other than logical.

— — —

"And what, exactly were you doing when the accident occurred Miss Miura?" The nurse asks, as his delicate fingers slowly unwrap my still damp bandages.

I glance towards the doorway, wondering if Hisao is okay out by himself in the corridor. I'm not sure why he wasn't allowed in, after all, I was permitted to sit with him after his heart flutter on the track. Ah well, he didn't seem too perturbed by the arrangements, and at least the nurse let us in from the cold.

"Falling," I say with a smirk, still riding high on my strange life-affirming euphoria.

"Ah, well I'm glad to see that your sense of humour has not been adversely affected." He replies, throwing me a warm smile.

With a final flourish the last of the bloody bandages fall away, revealing a sizeable wound, cutting neatly between the curves of the S shaped scar that already decimates the end of my stump. Absent mindedly I prod at where the two injuries intersect, marvelling at the strange numb feeling there. Ironic, that the body part that gives me the most pain is completely numb to the touch.

"The first rule when dealing with injuries Miss Miura, is that under no circumstances should you poke them and see what happens."

"Even if you can't feel it?" I ask with a grin.

"Especially if you can't feel it." He says, his voice muffled as he rummages around for supplies in one of the numerous cupboards scattered around the room. "I must say," he reappears in front of me, a section of white bandages overflowing his crossed arms. "I had not quite expected to see you up this early. You are not one of my normal nocturnal clientele."

I think without a doubt that the nurse is my favourite member of staff at Yamaku, even if most of the time I only see him when I'm in pain. He's one of the few people on campus that I can lower my guard around, not completely of course, not in the same way I can around Hisao. Though, to be fair I didn't know I could - or would - do that until it more or less happened.

I draw a sharp breath as the nurse cleans out my cut with a mixture that manages to be foul-smelling, freezing cold and which stings like a horde of angry bees, all at once. "Ow, I was awake anyway," taking a moment to bite my lip in pain, before continuing, "and my arm hurt, so…"

"No need to explain. You were injured, I'm the nurse. It's quite a simple yet efficient working relationship." His smile, which he seems to wear in the same way most people wear jewellery, falters. "Forgive me Miss Miura, but I have to ask. Was this injury completely accidental?"

"You think I hurt myself on purpose?" I ask, feigning surprise. I know he knows more about the student body than is reasonable to expect, but he can't actually read minds. Can he?

"It's been known to happen, and I'm afraid your sessions with Dr. Ueda mean that you are considered at risk." His normal cheerfulness has vanished like a deflated balloon, and it's clear he isn't happy about having to ask questions like this. I suppose for someone who dedicates practically his entire life to keeping the students of this school happy and healthy the prospect of one of them harming themselves must be crushing.

"Could I see Dr Ueda?" I ask, purposely not answering the question. I don't really want to lie to him - then again I'm not all that keen on the truth either.

"Of course, he should be in shortly." Relief floods onto the nurses face, he must think I'm going to open up about my arm to the psychotherapist. A more comforting thought than the truth, and one I'm in no rush to rid him of.

"Thanks," I say softly as he starts to wrap my arm in bandages. Since being more intimate with Hisao I've felt more and more comfortable having my stump uncovered - not that I want to go waving it about - but I think that if Ryouta or Ikuno ever asked to see, well, I think I could show them. I suppose at least I'm making progress with some parts of my chaotic life.

We fall into relaxed conversation, and once my arm is fully covered Hisao is invited back into the room. If the nurse has any questions regarding what Hisao was doing with me at this time in the morning he doesn't air them, though I suspect he has a network of spies that will feed him all the relevant gossip. As if to back up this theory he doesn't seem at all surprised when we mention visiting each other's parents over the summer holidays.

Dr Ueda arrives as the clock strikes six thirty, the nurse excuses himself to speak with the good doctor, leaving Hisao and me alone.

"Miki, are you sure you want to do this?" Hisao asks, a note of desperation in his voice.

I nod slowly, "I have to."

"I just," he pauses, "I just thought sleeping on it might change your mind."

"I've been sleeping on it for nearly a year, I've made up my mind," I sigh softly, taking his warm hand into mine, "I'm sorry."

We sit in silence after that, unable to meet each other's gaze. A million little doubts vie for attention in my head, but I push them back down, trying to focus on the exact wording of my confession. I can't think of any way to say it which doesn't sound like an awful soap opera.

"Miss Miura," the nurse announces, making me jump. "The doctor will see you now."

I look at Hisao. This is your last chance to back out. He exhales slowly, and I think he's going to get up and leave. But instead he holds his hand out for mine, helping me down from the paper covered bed. As politely as I can I thank the nurse, who now seems to have noticed the distinct change in the atmosphere.

Dr Ueda's office is only a little further down the corridor, but with each step it feels like more and more weight is being added to my shoes. Without Hisao beside me I would have never been able to do this. The door opens easily and without a sound. The room beyond with it's familiar mixed bag of furniture is dimly illuminated by lamps scattered like beacons among the bookshelves and on the desk.

Hanging his hat on the stand behind his desk the white-bearded therapist turns, opening his mouth for a greeting, a look of genuine surprise on his face when he sees Hisao. However I cut him off before he can say anything, and before I lose my nerve.

"I lied." the words leave my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. Damn it! That wasn't what I had intended to say.

"Excuse me?" he looks bewildered, one hand still on his bowler hat.

"I lied," I repeat.

"About what in particular Miss Miura?"

Glancing one last time at Hisao, who inclines his head by a fraction of an inch, I continue. "Everything."

I lied about everything.