The pale yellow sunlight of early morning flooded the living room, entering through the glass of the wall-length sliding windows of the room wherein they, as a family, ate. It was a Saturday morning and the house was still, as usual. They were the only two people inside the house for the whole of the day, as usual.

His parents had once again taken it upon themselves to hasten up the pace of their supposed courtship, leaving the two of them alone inside the house as often as possible. It has only been seven months since her family moved in and already his life was a mess.

Still yawning, he padded to the marble dining table and took his usual seat. The weekend newspaper was already atop the smooth surface of the rounded fixture, indicating that she was already up. It somewhat came as a surprise to him that she got up earlier than he did, considering that she probably stayed up until the wee hours of the morning trying to understand her lessons. Then again, he thought, she always held many surprises.

Upon opening the broadsheet, he heard the sound of movement coming from inside the kitchen, the sound passing through the glass beads hanging on the door jamb (which his mother seemed to be so fond of) that divided the two rooms. It puzzled him that she didn’t greet him in the noisy manner that she usually does, but eventually concluded that she probably didn’t hear him come into the dining room. Good, at least she was already making breakfast without him telling her to cook it.

Actually, it was a wonder that she’s cooking at all, considering the number of things that she didn’t know how to do, the number of things she only learned when he taught her how to do them, step by frustrating step. She really could be slow in the head most of the time, explaining the below-than-average grades she’s gotten from school and the permanent scowl on his face.

There was suddenly the sound of a crash followed by her voice, in a high-pitched cry. He stood up abruptly, causing the legs of the chair he had been sitting on to scrape loudly against the wooden floor. In three long strides he had entered the kitchen and saw what caused the interruption of his morning’s peace.

The kitchen countertop was littered with various things – a couple of knives, chopped red bell peppers, diced cheese, the can of cooking oil, the can of mushrooms, a bowl of eggs, the chopping board half-filled with white onions – and there was a pan simmering on the stove. She was standing with her back to him, the criss-cross of the fluffy blue apron on her back clearly in his line of sight, and he wasn’t sure if she had heard him walk in. Her posture was slumped, and she seemed to have her hands somewhere near her face.

Upon a closer and a longer look, he saw the white chopping board sprinkled with dots of red and concluded that she had cut herself while cutting up the onions. He was about to take a step towards her to take a look at her wound and help her when she spoke.

“No,” she said, her voice making it more apparent to him that she was in pain. “I’m fine.”

Even though it surprised him that she even knew he was in the room, it surprised him even more that she didn’t jump at the opportunity to be near him, like she usually did in circumstances like these. He hung back by the door, a few steps away from where she was standing. He watched her move clumsily to the sink to wash off the blood. By the time she started with the chopping once again, it became apparent to him that she really didn’t want his attention, making him take the seat at the stool that stood by the kitchen window and watched her go about cooking their breakfast.

She still wasn’t talking to him and none of her movements hinted that she acknowledged his presence. It irritated him, for some reason. Maybe he’s been so used to the ga-ga look in her eyes whenever she looks at him?

He wasn’t entirely sure how much time had elapsed when he was snapped out of the silence when she spoke his name.

“I know that when my father and I moved here, we caused you much stress,” her voice sounded distant, mixing with the sounds of the knife she was holding on her right hand meeting with the plastic surface of the chopping board. “And I know that we’ve cause changes that have made your life more difficult, and I’m really sorry. You must think that I had something to do with us moving here, but I didn’t plan this, believe it or not. Me having feelings for you just complicated things even more, and I am truly sorry for that.”

He stared at her back. He was perplexed at the fact that she was still chopping; usually when they talked, all of her attention was focused on him. He didn’t say anything as he was smart enough to pick up on the fact that she was only starting with this monologue. It wasn’t in his nature to interrupt people when they were speaking, after all, and he was indeed interested with where she was going with this.

“I wanted to thank you,” she began. “For everything that you’ve helped me with and for everything that you’ve taught me to do. It mustn’t have been easy for you, teaching someone who’s as slow as I am.” The sound of chopping ceased and was replaced by the sounds of cooking oil hitting the heated bottom of the pan. “Thanks, for the lessons in math, for helping me pass my qualifier’s exam, for the lessons in geography, and for the lessons in tennis. Really, I know that what you’ve taught me will stay with me forever.”

Flashes of the lessons she mentioned entered his head without his permission, and they made him smile. He remembered the first time they stayed up all night, with him trying very, very hard not to scream at her for not understanding. His mother had been nice enough to cook them a midnight snack, and it was a treat that he was sorry he missed for almost all of his life. The look on her face when she saw that she passed her test was unforgettable, though. She looked so happy that she passed; he had almost thought that all that hard work had been worth it.

“But you don’t have to worry anymore,” she started, startling him from his walk down memory lane. The smell and sound of garlic and onions being sautéed filled his senses. “From now on, I’ll try my best not to ask for your help. I need to be independent, after all.”

He fought to suppress a snort. How many times had he heard this from her again? Ten times? Twenty?

“You might not believe me,” she said. “But I really will try my best this time to stand on my own. When I tried before, my heart wasn’t really into it, I guess. That’s why it never worked, I suppose. But now, I’ve got enough motivation to go through with it.”

Unwillingly his left eyebrow arched upwards. What was she talking about? Motivation? What had changed, exactly?

“I might not be the smartest girl in this world, in fact I might actually be one of the dumbest, but I am smart enough to know that you and Charlotte are meant for each other.” The tinkling sound of the fork hitting the sides of the ceramic bowl mixed with her voice as she beat the eggs for the omelet. “The two of you make such a sight; you’re both beautiful to look at, both extremely smart and both excel at whatever it is that you set your minds into.” She paused for a while to sprinkle some salt into the bowl. “I am sad that it is made clear to me that it would have never worked out between the two of us, but I am not blinded by my bitterness to see that you two are right for each other.”

Her words left him with a weird feeling inside his chest. How many times had he wished that she would stop following him wherever he went – to class, to tennis practice, even to the restaurant where he worked part time in – and stop making his life miserable? Now that it was here, laid out clearly in front of him, he was at a loss as to what to feel. He should be happy, he knew that much, that she was giving him up, but he can’t, for the life of him, feel any inkling of happiness.

Images of her not being with him entered his mind. He would be free, free to walk around without that annoying feeling of being stared at. He would be free to eat around anywhere he liked, without being hassled. He would even be free to eat around with anyone he liked and he wouldn’t get the emotional consequence of her mother guilt-tripping him to oblivion while he hears her cry herself to sleep in her room.

“You two are right,” she started as she poured the beaten egg into the pan. “I’ve learned to accept that now,”

Was she right? Were they that perfect? He has only considered Charlotte as his friend, and although she has made some advances towards him, she was still a friend to his eyes. He can’t really imagine the two of them becoming a couple; it would be too weird, no matter how perfect she seemed to think it was.

And what of this girl in front of him, cooking his breakfast? What did he think of her, really? She seemed to be genuine in what she was saying. Maybe she really was serious about giving him up. Could he handle that? Why was he even asking himself this? Was she really that important to her?

He found himself standing up and taking slow, careful steps towards the spot where she was diddling with what she was cooking. He was an inch from her back, and the scent of her hair wafted to his nose, mixing with the smell of their breakfast. She was a full head shorter than she was, and Charlotte was a good deal taller than her, but it was undeniable that her hair was more beautiful. He itched to touch her, for some reason, but the sound of her voice stopped his hand mid-way.

“So I guess I’ll be forgetting you now. I know that it’ll be hard, with us living under one roof and all, but we are studying in different colleges. I can make it, I swear. I’ll even talk to your mother why it’s not –”

She trailed off into silence, surprised by the fact that he had suddenly closed in the space between them and that his hands snaked around her middle. He was surprised at himself too, surprised that he was actually hugging her. He pulled her closer to him, her back flat against his chest, and still her hands kept on working on their meal.

It annoyed him.

He was breathing into her neck, hard, and he grabbed her hands to still them from their actions, making her drop the wooden spoon onto the tiled countertop. Her hands were crossed onto her chest and he reached to kiss her right wrist when he felt her stiffen.

“Don’t,” she whispered. Her voice was weak, so different from the indifferent voice she used when she talked about forgetting him, and it was difficult for him to decipher if she was crying or not – her face was partially hidden by her hair. “Don’t,”

He disregarded her words and, on instinct, planted a kiss on her wrist, even licking at the spot where her pulse beat. It made him feel good that he was doing this. And it made him feel better that he was doing this to her. This felt right and he couldn’t figure out, for the life of him, why she wasn’t responding.

“If you don’t mean it, don’t do it,” she whispered again. She was still stiff in his arms. “I won’t be able to survive this when you decide to drop me,”

The thought seemed ludicrous to him. Why would he ever do that? Can’t she sense how suitable this was? With a frustrated sigh he released her and re-arranged her so that she was facing him, the small of her back digging into the counter, snugly positioned in between his hands. He crouched down to meet her eyes; her head was bowed and her hair was screening her face.

She was crying when he saw her face, and it puzzled him why she was doing it. Shouldn’t she be happy? He finally grasped the fact that he wanted her in his life, not as a friend, not as a student, not even as a house mate, but as a lover. How can he make her understand?

He met her eyes which were rimmed with red. He hated himself for making her cry like this. Why was it so hard? He knew that he’s made her cry many, many times, and even heard her do it, but she always managed to hide it from him. Now he realized that he was an ass for making her cry because she was kind and beautiful and pure. She didn’t deserve to cry.

He hated himself more when he saw the fear. She was afraid of him now. She’s never been afraid; he’s been mean to her and even shouted at her a few times, but she had never been afraid.

He lowered his face to hers so that their foreheads were touching. She was breathing hard, ragged breaths. He knew that she was hyperventilating and wanted to keep her from fainting. He kissed her face, the tears on her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, and puller her close, her head on his chest. His right hand found and laced fingers with hers, while his other hand went around her body, making soothing circles on her back. She was sobbing now and despite the fact that this has happened many times before, it felt different to him.

“Please,” his voice sounded hoarse. “Please believe me that I would never hurt you. I don’t want you to leave my life and I’m so sorry that it took me this long to realize how important you are to me.”

She was shaking in his arms, now crying openly. “Don’t hurt me, please,” she whispered, crushing his heart with her words.

“I won’t, I won’t,” he kept on repeating, a mantra that had already been tattooed on his mind. “I won’t hurt you, I won’t,”

The smell of their burning breakfast singed his nose, but he didn’t let go of her. He never wanted to let go.

-Fin-

It’s actually a fanfic of that Taiwanese TV soap, ‘It Started With A Kiss’. Yeah.