Hakareke (Kei)

I hate this month.

No, I'm lying. I hated every second we didn't talk. But I would never admit it out loud. Well, almost never.

I'm Kay. My hair is dark, short in the back, long in the front—it always gets in my eyes, it's annoying. I'm 160 cm tall, but if anyone says I'm short, I'll count their teeth. My style, they say, is "peculiar." Silver, chains, tattered clothes, heavy boots—I like it, and fuck you all. I'm a khakarek. I love girls. And I fucking can't be soft.

Tactile—yes, I touch you roughly. I grab you by the scruff of your neck, your shoulders, the back of your head. I don't know how to be gentle. That's not my thing. My thing is to squeeze so hard that your bones crack, but so you know: I'm close. I'm here. I'm not leaving.

But I left.

We had a fight. About some bullshit. But we'd fought before. I waited for her for half a year, and when she arrived unannounced, I went out and hit her. And when she came back, my parents punished me, and I went crazy. I lost my temper. I slammed my fist on the table—the cup shattered, damn it. I didn't mean to. But the words were already flying like stones, and I couldn't stop them. I screamed.

Silence.

For a month, I walked around like a zombie. At work, I was angry. At home, I was angry. With friends, I was even angrier. There was a void inside that I couldn't fill with music, whiskey, or stupid TV shows. I replayed that day in my head a hundred times. And every time, I wanted to howl.

I don't know how to ask for forgiveness. It's not about me. I don't know how to be weak. But I can admit when I feel like crap.

the realization dawned on her:

— I feel bad without you.