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to be connected with the object of their affection even if it kills them slowly within.
— sigmund freud
She's eleven, when they meet.
It's the start of sixth grade and a rather ordinary, if unusually warm, day in April; she bumps into the girl in the hallway on her way to class. Sorry! she blurts out, bending down to help the girl pick up her books. Their hands meet over a copy of the girl's math book, fingers lingering against each each just a fraction of a second too long. Shiori looks up and finds herself staring into the bluest eyes she's ever seen. Blue eyes framed by tight, golden-orange curls that fall around the side of the girl's face, down to her chin.
She starts, catches herself, pulls back, straightens up. Sorry, she says again, quieter this time, bowing her head slightly. Her cheeks feel hot; she hopes she isn't blushing too much.
It's okay, the girl says. Her voice is little deeper than Shiori would have expected -- and how strange, that she should expect
anything
of this girl, who she doesn't even know at all. The girl points a little ways down the hall at a classroom marked 1-B. I'm just going to class over there. And I'm early anyway. She looks Shiori up and down. I don't think I've seen you before. What grade are you in?
Sixth. And we're in the same class, actually, Shiori adds, after a moment.
The girl's mouth broadens into a wide smile. Oh, really? she says, sounding pleased.
;;
She misses when they used to be friends.
Not like they aren't friends now. They are. And yet --
But then again, they've never really been
just friends
, have they? They've always been something more than that, even when they were younger -- though
something more
is a kind of vague idea that she doesn't know how to describe; there's always been
something
between them. Something . . . uneven.
It's been years, but Shiori can still recall their first chance meeting in the hallway, that little spark as their hands met. As she'd followed Juri down the hall, she'd thought, Who
is
this girl? Even then, Juri had an air of elegance about her. There was something untouchable about her. Shiori had been enchanted instantly with her.
(juri sitting by the windows, drowning in sunlight, catches her eye in class, grinning coquettishly.)
(shiori's heart leaps to her throat.)
But that had changed, over time. She could remember it almost exactly, the day everything started to change. Seventh grade, watching Juri fence, beating each opponent in swift, skilled progression. The team captain had called for a break and Juri had pulled off her fencing mask, shaking her hair free, a pretty rose-colored stain of a blush on her cheeks from the exertion. Seeing her like that had sparked something inside Shiori; twin feelings of admiration and jealousy.
The feelings took root and grew, bigger and bigger until it was all she could think about. Juri was better than her. Their friendship wasn't real, it was just something Juri kept up out of a kind of pity towards Shiori for being just a plain, faceless nobody. It was the truth, wasn't it? she thinks to herself. She is so woefully pathetic, compared to Juri. There's no way someone like Juri -- talented, gorgeous,
popular
Juri -- could ever really care about her. Their friendship is just one more sweet gesture on the long list of Juri's good deals; a chivalrous, princely act.
She hates Juri.
;;
(but, no, that's not it.)
(that isn't quite right.)
;;
They've always been something more than friends. She knew it then, but she
knows
now. Juri has always . . . No. She can't bring herself to think about it. But she understands it all now. Now, at last, she finally sees: she's better than Juri. She's always been better than Juri. She is the one who has always been in control. She is the one thing that perfect, shining Juri can never have.
She knows it should make her happy.
But --