Ti passed quickly. Every day was the sa: waking up, going to school, school ending, going ho, getting beaten, sleeping. It repeated in a cycle, like a loop from which she could never escape.
But Margo had grown accustod to it.
She was used to her stepfather's belt, used to the pain of kneeling on the floor, used to her mother's gentle smiles. She even began to believe that this was love: hitting her was love, scolding her was love, making her bleed and making her cry—it was all love.
So, she stopped resisting.
If her stepfather told her to kneel, she knelt. If he told her to admit her faults, she admitted them. If he beat her, she didn't dodge and she didn't cry; she simply bore it in silence.
Her mother said she had beco well-behaved. Her stepfather said she had beco sensible.
Margo felt the sa way.
She was a child being loved. Even if this love hurt a little, even if it was a bit frightening, it didn't matter. As long as it was love, it was enough.
However, recently, Margo began to feel that sothing was not quite right.
The way her stepfather looked at her seed different from before.
Before, when he beat her, his eyes were cold, angry, and disgusted. But now, there was sothing else in his gaze—sothing Margo couldn't understand, but instinctively felt afraid of.
It was a sticky, damp kind of look. It crawled all over her body like a snake. Her stepfather would stare at her face, her neck, and her arms for a long ti. Sotis he would reach out and touch her hair, his movents slow and light, his fingers lingering in her hair for a long ti.
Margo didn't like that feeling. It made her want to throw up.
But she didn't dare say anything. Because her stepfather said this was love.
"Margo is growing up," he said once while stroking her hair. "You're getting more and more beautiful."
Her mother smiled from the side, a very gentle smile.
"Yes, Margo looks like her mother; she'll definitely be a beauty when she grows up."
Margo lowered her head and said nothing.
She didn't want to grow up. She didn't want to beco beautiful.
She just wanted... she just wanted to disappear.
Margo was eight years old. That feeling of fear grew stronger and stronger.
Her stepfather began to find all sorts of excuses to touch her. When he helped her fix her collar, his fingers would deliberately brush her neck. When he combed her hair, his fingers would deliberately brush her ears.
Margo started to fear going ho.
Every day after school, she would wander around the school vicinity for a long ti. She would go to the park, sit on the swing, and swing back and forth by herself. She would go to the library, sit in a corner, and read picture book after picture book. She would go to the convenience store, stand in front of the magazine rack, and pretend to read magazines.
Anything to be able to go ho a little later, to face the sticky gaze of her stepfather a little later, to feel those touches that made her want to vomit a little later.
That day after school, Margo went to the park again.
She sat on the swing, swaying slowly. It was already autumn; the wind blowing by was a bit cold. The leaves were starting to turn yellow, falling one by one, carpeting the ground like a golden rug.
Margo looked at the fallen leaves and suddenly rembered kindergarten, when their teacher took them to pick up leaves to make leaf art. Back then, she had picked up many beautiful leaves—red, yellow, orange—like a rainbow. She had pasted those leaves onto a piece of white paper, made a painting, and brought it ho to show her mother and her father, who was still alive then.
Her mother had looked at it and smiled, saying, "Margo is amazing." Her father had stroked her head: "Margo will surely beco an excellent painter in the future."
That was a long ti ago—so long that Margo had almost forgotten it.
The swing next to her creaked.
Margo looked up. Soone was sitting on the adjacent swing.
A boy wearing a school uniform she didn't recognize. His hair was ssy, and he held a book in his hand.
When had he arrived? She hadn't heard any footsteps. He sat there, not looking at her, his head lowered as he read. The wind flipped the pages of the book in his hands. He frowned, pressed the pages back down, and continued reading, as if she didn't exist.
Margo looked away and continued staring at the fallen leaves on the ground.
The two of them just sat there, neither speaking. Occasionally, the swing would give off a faint creak, the leaves would rustle in the wind, and there were the sounds of children playing in the distance.
But Margo felt that it was very quiet here. Quieter than ho, quieter than any place where her stepfather and mother were.
She secretly stole another glance at the boy. He was still reading, his expression very calm. His eyes were those lifeless "dead-fish eyes," but he was reading with great focus, turning page after page. Sotis he would stop, as if thinking about sothing.
Margo suddenly wondered: What book was he reading?
She couldn't see the cover clearly; she could only see that it was a library paperback, quite thin, with the edges worn white.
Ti passed slowly.
The sky gradually darkened, the lights in the park ca on, and other children were called ho by their parents, leaving only the two of them.
The boy closed his book, glanced at his watch, stood up, patted the dust off his trousers, and shoved the book into his school bag.
He was leaving.
Margo suddenly felt a bit panicked. If he left, she would be alone again.
"What are you reading?" That was the only way she could think of to start a conversation.
The boy froze, then took the book back out.
"A novel."
"What novel?"
He flipped the book over to show her the cover. She squinted at it for a few seconds. Kokoro. Did that an 'heart'? She didn't understand, so she shook her head.
"I don't get it."
"That's normal. This is for adults."
"You aren't an adult either."
"..." He paused. "I'm almost one."
"Will you co back tomorrow?" she asked.
"Don't know. Maybe."
"Why do you co here to read?"
The boy's hand, which was moving to close the book, paused. "It's quiet here."
"Isn't it quiet at ho?"
He was silent for a mont, his gaze fixed on the book pages.
"It's quiet at ho, too. Maybe my younger sister is a bit noisy."
"Then why..."
"Just don't want to go back too early. Told them I have club activities at school, so they won't worry."
Margo looked at his lowered side profile and suddenly understood sothing.
She nodded, jumped off the swing, took a few steps, and then stopped.
"My na is Margo. Houshou Margo."
"...Hikigaya Hachiman."
The next day, Margo went to the park again.
He was there, sitting on the swing, holding a different book. Seeing she had arrived, he looked up, nodded once, and looked back down. She sat on the adjacent swing, dangling her legs. Neither of them spoke. When the sun sank, he stood up and left.
She watched him walk away until he disappeared around the street corner. She pulled her sleeve down to cover the fresh injury on her arm.
That was from her stepfather's belt buckle last night—a long line extending from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. She didn't want him to see it. But the next day, she deliberately pulled her sleeve back up again. She didn't know what she was doing; she just wanted to know if he would ask, if he would say "Did you fall by yourself?" like those other adults, if he would look at her with eyes that didn't care, and then silently distance himself.
He asked nothing. He just took one glance, then lowered his head and continued reading.
She felt relieved, yet a little disappointed.
A knot.
When the sun was about to set, he stood up to leave. Margo stood up as well. As soon as her foot hit the ground, her knee went soft, and she nearly fell.
She looked down at her shoes.
Her shoelace had co undone—she didn't know when it had loosened—and she had stepped on it, nearly tripping. She crouched down, wrapped her fingers around the lace for two turns, and tied a knot. It was crooked—one side long, one side short, completely different from the other side. She stood up, took two steps, and it ca undone again. The lace
dragged on the ground; she nearly stepped on it again. She sighed, crouched down to tie it again. She tied it tighter this ti, but it was still crooked.
"Is your shoelace always like that?" His voice ca from above. Margo looked up. He hadn't left yet; he was standing in front of her, looking down at her shoes. There wasn't much disgust in those dead-fish eyes.
"..." she whispered. "It always cos loose, always making trip."
He was silent for a mont, shoved his book into his pocket, and crouched down. His fingers pinched her shoelace, wound it around once, then wound it around again, and pulled it tight. His movents were very slow—so slow that she could see every step clearly. He held both strings in his hands, crossed them, looped them through, and pulled them tight—a butterfly bow, both sides the sa length, both loops the sa size.
"See that clearly?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Tie it yourself next ti."
She lowered her head, looking at the shoelace. It was tied very nicely—both sides were even, the loops were the sa size. She pulled her foot back, hiding it under the hem of her skirt.
"Thank you."
He stood up, didn't respond, and just left.
Margo sat on the swing, stuck her foot out, and stared at that butterfly bow for a long ti. She touched it gently with her finger, then pulled back; she couldn't bear to step on it.
She started going to the park every day. No matter if her stepfather beat her or not, no matter how many new injuries appeared on her arms, she went. Sotis she went early, sotis late, but he was always there.
She sat on the swing, he sat on the swing next to her, and the two of them dangled their legs, watching the sun sink bit by bit.
One day, she pulled her sleeve up too high, exposing a new wound. It was very deep, and the blood hadn't dried yet.
He put his book down, stood up, and walked over to her.
He took a bandage out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Put this on," he said.
Margo took the bandage and stuck it over the wound. The bandage was flesh-toned and very small—it couldn't cover the whole wound—but she felt it didn't hurt as much anymore.
"Hikigaya."
"Hm?"
"Did you know all along?"
He looked at her, saying nothing.
"Did you know those injuries weren't from falling by myself?"
He was silent for a while.
"I knew."
"Then why didn't you ask?"
"Because you'll tell when you want to."
Margo lowered her head, looking at the bandage on her arm. She suddenly wanted to speak, wanted to tell him everything—wanted to tell him about her stepfather beating her, tell him about her mother telling her to shut up, tell him how scared she was, tell him she didn't want to go ho. But she couldn't get the words out.
She just sat there, dangling her legs, looking at the sky.
"Hikigaya."
"Hm?"
"Will you still co here in the future?"
"I will."
"Every day?"
"Probably."
She smiled. She pulled her sleeve down, covering that bandage. The sun had set, and only a hint of dark red remained on the horizon.
"See you tomorrow," Houshou Margo whispered.
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