Blog #725

So, nosebleeds.

In the medical world, it’s referred to as ‘epistaxis,’ which is nice to know but totally unnecessary, like most stuff taught in high school.

In the world of manga and anime, nosebleeds are a commonly used visual device to denote sexual arousal or intense romantic interest. A horny guy sees a woman with D-cups in a bikini? Nosebleed. A girl sees her crush across the street? Nosebleed. KC meets X years after their breakup? Nosebleed.

P.S. Do not confuse with the Filipino version of nosebleed.

* * *

Making up stories is my passion and what I hope to eventually to do for a living. More to the point, I draw them, and I’ve drawn a lot of them over the years. I’ve read a lot of them, too – both fiction and non-fiction – and I’ve read enough to understand that just because things don’t happen the way you think they should, it doesn’t mean they’re not what you want them to be.

So this sudden blend of greens and baby blues that I still have nightmares about, and me never seeing it coming – it doesn’t have to mean anything.

Or maybe it’s just like what I want to believe, when reality is a lot crappier.

Nothing about X is like I remember. Or maybe that’s just how gods are. They don’t age. They just get better, like fine wine. Or David Beckham. The point is, all the things I remember about X: it’s shite.

He doesn’t just have dark hair. Instead, it’s a silky jet black, the kind that makes you want to run your fingers through it. His body isn’t as I let myself remember either. I’ve only allowed myself to think he’s buffed, but he’s more than that now. Even though his long-sleeved shirt and khakis cover every inch of him like a nun from a convent, it’s not enough to hide the sinewy changes time has carved on his body. And his blasted baby blues? They’re glowing like aquamarines now, like icing on the cake, making him way, way ho---

Hotter.

Hotter.

Hotter.

I mean, horrible.

It’s horrible that, umm…

“Sumimasen.” A waitress appears by our side, and I’m shamefully grateful for the distraction. Another second there and my thoughts would have been on thin ice.

The waitress hands us the wet towel X’s requested, and my neck cricks as I finally lower my head from its upturned position and stop pinching the bridge of my nose. Let’s just say that nosebleeds and me go way, way back, and I know the first aid for it like the back of my hand.

“Arigatou gozaimasu.” I reach for the towel –

But X also does the same thing.

Our fingers graze against each other.

Bloody, bloody hell!

The waitress gives us a look of confusion as we yank our hands away. Placing the tray on the table, she says awkwardly, “Atsui ja arimasen.” It’s not hot.

My face flames. Awkward doesn’t even cover it, and I wish I could give her the usual breakup line. It’s not you. It’s me. But since that would only confuse things more, I can only mumble my apology. “Gomen nasai.” It means ‘sorry’ and it’s what I feel. I’m sorry that I was forgetful enough to have left my stuff here, sorry that I’ve made the teashop’s staff panic over my nosebleed, but most of all, I’m sorry that I have to meet him.

Because it’s started again.

We haven’t been in each other’s company for more than ten minutes and I’m already hurting like crazy, and the look on X’s face isn’t helping. He’s making it very clear that he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, and the knowledge rips out a tiny piece of my heart. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or get mad. I’m the one who should be acting like that, you arse!

If I were the type to learn from my past, I would have left the moment I saw who it was on the other side of the door, bleeding nose and all. That’s what I should have done, that’s what I can still do now.

But somehow my legs refuse to move, my bum feels like it’s stuck to the seat, and I’m all quiet like I’m just waiting for the waitress to serve us tea---

“Sumimasen.”

It’s the waitress again, and my eyes widen when she actually serves us a set of tea. Does this mean I have the gift of premonition now? And if that’s the case, does it mean that my dreams of X and I one day getting along the way post-divorce Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner does could also come true?

The thought makes me inhale deeply.

I think…I want that, especially now that we’re apparently going to the same college---

Oh.

Another thought occurs to me, and I blurt out, “I didn’t follow you here, honest.”

X just looks at me, his handsome face hard, hands clenched on top of the table like he’s raring to punch something.

And I don’t get it.

I really don’t.

Like any girl who’s been dumped, I’ve done my fair share of imagining what could happen if X and I were to meet again. When I feel particularly vengeful, the scenarios mostly involve X groveling and me kicking him in the balls, over and over. But when I feel particularly weak, it’s just us…forgiving each other. Suffice it to say, my fantasies range far and wide, but not once – not ever – did I imagine it would be the other way around, and he’d be the one making me feel like shite…again.

It’s enough to have my head literally start pounding, and it doesn’t help at all that so many things about him aren’t adding up. When the girls waiting outside the university hall started screaming upon catching a glimpse of X through the windows, to say that I was shocked would have been a vast understatement.

The X I once knew always wore a mask, someone who pretended to be a courteous, charming angel who never lost his smile. This X, however, appears to have stopped giving a shite about what other people say about him. The X I once knew liked to tease and flirt, but the only thing this X seemed to like doing is alternate between scowling and glaring – at me.

I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it does. It hurts like the bloody hell actually, but there’s no way – absolutely no way – I’m going to let him put me down just like that.

So enough of this, blast it.

Whatever his reason is for seemingly wanting to hurt me again and again, I won’t give him the satisfaction of showing him that it’s working. I’m stronger now, and I’ll show him that.

Think ojousama. I reach for the pot and pour us tea, and I feel proud when I manage to keep my hands from shaking.

Speak like an ojousama. “Itadakimasu,” I murmur as I place his cup in front of him, and after a moment, his lips move, but what he says is barely audible, like he thinks I don’t even deserve to hear his voice, and…the pain is so much worse now.

Be an ojousama. But when I reach for my cup, I can no longer control my hands from trembling a little. Blast him. Blast him. BLAST HIM. But my inner chaos is ¼ resentment, ¾ pain, and it’s so pathetic that I just want to drink my sorrows away like before.

So I gulp the whole thing down.

His eyes widen.

A moment later, I’m choking.

I’ve forgotten how hot Japanese like their tea. It’s almost as hot as hi---

Him.

Him.

Him.

Hippopotamuses, I almost scream at myself.

“Are you okay?”

Finally, he speaks.

And now I’m wishing he didn’t.

Because his voice---

It’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. It’s exactly the way it used to be, and it’s making me remember things I should’ve long stopped caring about.

Senpai. Senpai. Senpai.

That’s how he used to call me, on account that I’m a year older than him, but somehow he’s turned it into the sexiest little endearment.

Senpai. Senpai. Senpai.

If I close my eyes now, I can so easily pretend that it’s just like before, and oh, I’m so blasted tempted to just do it. Pretend that all’s still okay because the pathetic thing is, even with everything he’s done---

I still yearn for the way it used to be.

“Does it still hurt?”

I want to laugh. Or bang my head against the table. I know he’s talking about my scalded tongue, but I don’t give a crap, and I say jerkily, “Like you care.”

There’s this second of silence---

His expression turns cold. “You’re right.”

Before I can understand what’s happening, he’s already stood up, and by the time I realize he’s really leaving---

He’s already walking away.

Just. Like. That.