He makes it through three days. School, afternoons, nights, all of it goes by in a blur of sympathy and condolences that are kept at a comfortable distance.
It's not until that third day, coming home from school, that he sees the laundry on hanging outside and realizes it's been there almost a week, through rain and sun and fog. When he enters the house, he suddenly can't remember the exact pitch of Nanako's voice when she calls him "big bro". He couldn't remember it last week either, but last week he was secure in the belief that he and his friends would save her no matter what, so he didn't need to remember. He would hear it again soon.
He's wrestling his futon into place when he remembers he doesn't actually like being alone. The distance isn't comfortable anymore and he doesn't like the silence. It keeps him up at night.
Wrestling with the futon proves pointless and he flings it away from himself in a rare show of frustration. It catches on the edge of the desk, knocking half of the somewhat-organized clutter on its surface to the floor. He hears the clatter of pencils hitting the floor and without thinking, he turns and with a sweep of his arm sends everything that survived the futon down after them.
And then it's an hour later and he's standing in the aftermath of a typhoon with his name and he can't even bring himself to care that it's his own belongings he's trashed. Tugging his blanket away from where it's tangled with the futon, he wraps it around himself and curls up on the floor without bothering to take his uniform off.
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It's not until that third day, coming home from school, that he sees the laundry on hanging outside and realizes it's been there almost a week, through rain and sun and fog. When he enters the house, he suddenly can't remember the exact pitch of Nanako's voice when she calls him "big bro". He couldn't remember it last week either, but last week he was secure in the belief that he and his friends would save her no matter what, so he didn't need to remember. He would hear it again soon.
He's wrestling his futon into place when he remembers he doesn't actually like being alone. The distance isn't comfortable anymore and he doesn't like the silence. It keeps him up at night.
Wrestling with the futon proves pointless and he flings it away from himself in a rare show of frustration. It catches on the edge of the desk, knocking half of the somewhat-organized clutter on its surface to the floor. He hears the clatter of pencils hitting the floor and without thinking, he turns and with a sweep of his arm sends everything that survived the futon down after them.
And then it's an hour later and he's standing in the aftermath of a typhoon with his name and he can't even bring himself to care that it's his own belongings he's trashed. Tugging his blanket away from where it's tangled with the futon, he wraps it around himself and curls up on the floor without bothering to take his uniform off.