I Fell in Love with Hope(104)

She walks in with panic, her body practically shaking all over. Her hair is down, a short cut the same color as Neo’s, but when she casts it back to recollect herself, dark violet cups her jaw and cheekbone.

“Ma’am?”

She jumps at my voice, mildly recognizing me. She’s holding something in her arms. Papers, I think.

“Hello, um–” She stops in her tracks, a submissive edge to her voice. I know from the look on her face that she can’t tell if I’m a girl or a boy. The existence of anything in between doesn’t make sense to her, so she waits for me to fill in the gaps.

“My name is Sam,” I say.

Her face lights up.

“Sam,” she repeats. “He talked about you. When he came back for his treatments, I didn’t understand what the doctors were saying. He said to me that it was alright, that he wouldn’t be alone, that Sam would be here for him.” She recounts the story with fondness, then, with a hint of sorrow.

“Did you read his um–Neo’s writing?” she asks.

“I did.”

She nods at that, licking her lips. “Since he was a boy, he was so quiet. He rarely smiled, but he was so happy when I read to him,” she says, regret fleeting past her face. “I wish I’d kept doing that, despite everything… You were his friend, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Was he happy here?” she asks. “Did he smile?”

I think of Neo the day I met him. It doesn’t feel like three years ago. It feels like I’ve known him his whole life. I remember his scowls and his complaints and his constant need to be negative about everything under the sun. I remember how those scowls softened, how treasured his little acts of compassion here and there were, how his trust in me was something I never understood the worth of till now.

I owe it to him to tell the truth. I owe it to the smile he gave me before walking into the ocean.

“Every day.”

His mother stutters over her next breath, her arms hugging the papers as if they carry Neo in them.

“Thank you,” she says, embracing me, smiling as she cries. “Thank you, Sam.”

Neo’s mother places the pieces of paper she managed to salvage in my hands. Though they are wrinkled, they are intact and overflowing with ink. Neo’s father will burn the rest, I’m sure, but at the very least, beneath those stray sheets, the words Hit List stare back at me. Metal spirals catch the light, little notes in the margins with time stamps shown off as if the notebook itself is telling me it has not been stolen just yet.

The last of the survivors is a single envelope that Neo’s mother keeps for herself.

I’m not sure what Neo wrote to his mom. I am not sure if he has forgiven her or condemned her, or simply said his goodbyes. I am not sure if she ever reads it. I only know that she walks out of the chapel holding it against her heart rather than toying with her cross, and when she leaves, whatever direction her husband took, she goes the opposite.

—

“Hikari!” I run into her room. It’s dark, night drawn over the city, but she isn’t in bed. I unfurl the Hit List, not bothering with the light switch. “Hikari, look, Neo’s mom, she–”

I stop, catching my breath, realizing she isn’t here. Her dinner tray is on her bed, but none of the food has been disturbed. Instead, all that’s missing is the knife.

“Hikari?” I ask, more cautiously, waiting for a noise of some kind, an answer, anything to know where she is. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the door to her bathroom is open. Inside, a girl bears her weight on the sink, her head hanging between her shoulders. Her figure fades with the dark blue background, like watercolors. The glint of teeth on a blade trembles in her fist.

“Hikari,” I breathe, afraid to take so much as a step. “Hikari, put it down, please.”

She doesn’t answer or even turn to look at me. She shuts her eyes tight, and I know the moment I run at her, she will cut herself. A plastic knife takes time to reach blood, but she has the motive to dig.

“Please,” I beg, not moving, feeling the heat at the back of my eyes swelter and form a glossy layer of water.

Hikari lets loose a whimper.

It would be so much easier if she didn’t love me, she said. But at least she loves me enough to throw the knife in the sink. The moment it clinks against the ceramic, I run to her, pulling her into me.

“Don’t touch me,” she says. “No, no, stop it. Stop it. Don’t touch me!”

Hikari starts hitting me in the chest in the stomach, trying to push me away, but she’s become so weak. If I let her go, she’ll collapse again. I cup the back of her head and wrap my other arm around her back. She hits my shoulders with her fists, crying. It stings, but I’d rather she hurt me than herself.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, her pain-fueled violence fading into defeat. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper, kissing her hair. “I’m not angry. I’m right here. Do you want to read some Shakespeare with me?” I ask. “We can draw together if you want.”

Hikari hasn’t opened a book or a sketchpad since Sony passed on. She shakes her head, so I carry her to bed, and before laying the covers over her, I reach one more time.

“Hikari,” I whisper, caressing the cool, weightless ridges of her hand. “Do you want to go see our stars?”