"Weren't you supposed to be at work today?" You accused your mother, dropping the plastic shopping bag onto the counter and rubbing your fingers together. Dark red lines marred your skin from where the handles had bit into it.

She threw you a withering look, then grimaced, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I've had a migraine all day, okay?" She snapped, her voice now accompanied by a hoarse grate. A hangover, no less. "Amari-San said she'd cover for me."

You turned away with gritted patience, unpacking the items from the bag. It was all you could do to inhibit your frustration from becoming unveiled. "Have you taken any medicine?"

"Yes," her voice cut sharply, "but it didn't help. I'm going to bed for an hour." 

You lingered in silence as she shuffled out of the room, hair splayed in thick greasy waves around her shoulders, nightshirt tucked into the back of her shorts. Why did she get herself into these messes? And what exactly could you do about it? Before, the drink only resurfaced every now and then, when exhaustion from work kicked in and she needed to unwind; now the addiction had grown into something beyond her control. How she'd let it happen, you were clueless, but you couldn't help but feel partly to blame; being a single parent was tough enough, but the reliance you had had on your mother in place of a friend must have been exhausting too.

Flipping the switch on the kettle, you picked through the medicine cabinet for a blue packet and tipped the contents into a mug as steam began rolling from the spout in thick grey waves. A few minutes later, you plodded up the stairs with the drink clutched firmly in your left hand. Nudging open the door to her room with your socked feet, you waded quietly through the clothes abandoned in piles on the floor, the interior dim and thick with the mingling smell of sweat and alcohol.

Light nipped at your heels from the doorway, casting a slanted glow over the mass of dark hair splayed over the futon. Setting the drink beside her, you took her shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. "I've made you a drink. It should help clear your head." She stirred with a quiet moan, and then pulled herself free from your grasp, not bothering to lift her head.

With a sigh, you straightened back up and left without another word.

~

The static hum of music blasting through headphones was the only sound between you as you walked, side-by-side on the pavement. Better than silence, you thought dryly, toying with the button on your coat. It would soon be time to shed such garments, with spring making itself evident early; trees were already blossoming pale shoots, and the grass was starting to weave out of its matted brown, into more natural yellows and greens. Winter had come and gone with more excitement than anticipated after being embroiled in the quest to 'save' Tsukishima. The very boy plodding along beside you, sleeves scuffing every so often. You had less than a year left of high school, after which you weren't sure what would happen. Would you even see Kei after that?

You had to finish the bridge before that time came.

"So, uhm, you have any plans for the weekend?"

Hearing your voice above the speakers, he peered across at you with a frown, glasses sloping down his nose, and shifted the earphones around his neck. "What?"

"I was just wondering if you were doing anything at the weekend?" You repeated, suddenly sheepish now that his attention was solely on you.

His shoulders lifted into a half-hearted shrug, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Probably not. Why?"

"I thought, maybe... we could meet up, or something. So you're not... stuck in the house the whole day," you said quietly, fumbling over your words as his irked expression transposed into a more mild frown.

"Oh, uh, maybe. I don't know..." His tone didn't sound promising.

You bit back a sigh, reaching up to rub the side of your head. You could already feel a headache building, tension collecting behind your eyes. Why did he have to make this so much more difficult? Why couldn't he willingly accept your efforts at a friendship?

"Oh!" You suddenly blurted, shrugging the straps of your school bag off your shoulder and letting it slide to the crevice of your elbow. "I didn't see you earlier so I couldn't give you it... but I made you something." You pulled on the drawstring and rummaged blindly inside until your fingers closed around something cold and smooth. You were nearing the junction to his house now, the clocktower ascending from the dusty rooftops like a golden edifice. "Yamaguchi said you liked strawberry shortcake so I-"

He walked away before you even had the box out of your bag. The rest of your sentence stuck in your throat as you watched his legs work into a clumsy stride, shoulders stiff and upright, as if he couldn't wait to get away from you. Not a word, not a glance back.

Your teeth gritted with a sudden swell of hurt and anger. Your palms turned sweaty as you left the bag dangling from your arm.

"Do you hate me or something?!" You shouted after him, your heart clenching painfully at your own words. Please don't be true. Please don't be true. He stopped at that, frozen mid-step, as if caught in a freeze-frame. You took slow, unsteady steps toward him, your voice quivering. "Do you really want me to leave you alone? Forget you even exist, like everyone else? Do you really not like me?"

He didn't say a word. His silence hurt more that any outright agreement ever could.

You sunk your teeth into your lower lip as the invisible pain stung your eyes. You grabbed the box from your bag and tossed it to the ground at his feet, something giving a soft thud inside. "Well at least you're not the only one," you muttered bitterly, walking past with your arms braced to knock his.

A single tear tumbled over the ridge of your cheek, tracing a cold, wet path all the way to your chin. You didn't cry often. You liked to tie your emotions to a rock and throw them to the back of your mind, rather than openly express them. But this time, the unseen realisation that Tsukishima might actually really dislike you was too heavy to throw away. You hadn't realised how much he had meant to you, how much meaning he gave you, how much you wanted to mean to him. You were tired of being lonely. You were tired of him being lonely. You thought you were the answer to his problems, and he was the answer to yours.

But apparently you'd been wrong. Wishful thinking the whole time. Were you really that goddamn stupid-

"[Y/N]! [Y/N], wait!"

You ignored him at first. You didn't think it was real - that it was your stupid mind playing tricks on you again, convincing you of something that wasn't there - convincing you of what you wanted to hear.

But then someone grabbed your arm and yanked you back into reality, finding yourself caged under the fiery glare of a golden-eyed boy. Perspiration beaded his nose, chest rising and falling like a yo-yo, the plastic tub secured in the crook of his arm. His hand shook as it held yours.

"Hate... is a strong word."

You blinked at him, deadpan, unsure of what to feel anymore. "What?"

He bowed his head, sheepish and angry and confused all at once. Conflicted. "Hate is... I don't hate you, okay? I don't."

Then he let go of your arm, and you let it drop loose against your thigh, stricken with confusion as he walked away from you again, turning down a fork in the road. This time, he glanced back. His expression didn't change, didn't soften or relax, didn't grow hard, but he let his eyes linger on yours for a long pause, his eyes shining with golden brilliance, before disappearing round the corner.

You finally let out the breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding, heart stammering in protest against your ribs. You let your body sag, wrought with an abundance of emotions that left you jaded and shaken.

You didn't have a clue what to think anymore. What to feel.

Hate's a strong word... I don't hate you...

Tsukishima might well think that, but your mother certainly had other ideas.