Ryne Moore: Yandere as a philosophy of Love Chapter 4: My Sweater I

Although I’m not a fan of white, I don’t hate it entirely. There are shades of white I can tolerate — in clothing, in food, even in drawings.

It’s not the color itself I hate; it’s the mories it makes feel.

The laughter it makes see, the places it distorts — the way those pills distort my world.

Chapter 4: My Sweater I

On Wednesdays I usually sleep in.

I don’t know if it’s because Tuesday leaves very relaxed from the lighter workload, or because my body understands it needs to rest to get through the rest of the week. But that Wednesday I woke up before six, greeted by the photo of Nolan stuck to the ceiling, welcoming with his brilliant smile.

I lay still for a mont, imagining his voice in the morning silence. Sothing not very common in the building.

The neighbors on the fourth floor have a baby that cries at six-thirty; Mrs. Miclan always takes twenty minutes to tend to it.

It wouldn’t be long before its crying woke us all up. Nobody complained — it was convenient to have an alarm that never failed and turned itself off, or at least that was my position.

"What a waste," I whispered, feeling how my forearms burned, clouding my mind. "Such a beautiful silence wasted on pain."

I sat up slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness. My room at that hour has a beautiful color — sothing between gray and blue that only lasts ten minutes before the sun erases it.

Although it was rare to see, given my low inclination to sleep fewer than eight hours, I liked that mont. Nobody else nas it, because nobody else takes the ti to appreciate it.

I do it while looking at the eyes in Nolan’s photos.

I walked to the bathroom with bare feet on the wooden floor. The third plank from the door creaks — it always does; it has ruined many of my surprises for Nolan.

I turned on the warm mirror light, not the ceiling one — I didn’t want a headache at that hour.

I looked at myself. I don’t have proper pajamas; I slept in a white spaghetti-strap shirt that was far too big for but left my bandages visible, along with a pair of athletic boyshorts.

I untied the knot in the bandages with two fingers, unhurried. I unrolled it centiter by centiter, letting the air reach my skin gradually.

"Damn," I whispered. With those words I opened the dicine cabinet, took out the disinfectant, applied it directly without cotton. The hiss was the only thing that filled the silence.

Three red lines on my white skin, deeper than I had thought.

"Looks like the wound was more serious than I realized," I told my reflection. "How irresponsible of you, Clear."

I took a fresh bandage, cut it to the exact length I had learned over ti, and wrapped it with the sa tension as always. I tied the knot. I folded the edge inward so it wouldn’t co loose.

I don’t cover them because they displease — in fact, I like seeing how my body records what I do for us. But I know Nolan wouldn’t see them the way I do.

For him I need to be pure. White, so that he — and the world — will love .

I turned on the hot water tap and waited for the right temperature before stepping in. Bathing in cold water is a torture I’m not willing to endure, alone.

I stepped out wrapped in my yellow towel, covering my whole body. I’ve had it since I arrived in Vancouver. It already has a few loose threads in the left corner that I’ve never cut because I feel sorry to.

I stood in front of the wardrobe.

Choosing clothes is not a decision I take lightly. Every piece I put on is the first thing Nolan sees when I arrive, and the first thing that deserves to be thought through.

First, the shoes.

The brown ones, the ones that shine when I polish them for a while. I pulled them from the bottom drawer and checked them under the bedside lamp.

"Perfect. Not a single scuff."

Then the plaid skirt — brown with thin cream-colored lines, sitting two centiters above the knee. Nolan told once that he liked seeing in it. He didn’t say it in those exact words; he said it with his eyes, which is how he says the most important things.

The black stockings he gave . It was a Tuesday in October, about two weeks ago — we opened late because the power had gone out on half the block and Nolan wanted to make sure everything was working before letting anyone in.

I arrived wearing the skirt without stockings, and he looked at two seconds too long before telling that just looking at made him cold.

He took a pair of black stockings from his car — strawberry-scented. A little wrinkled, but functional.

"I had these put away," he said, not looking at . "You’re not from here, Ryne — you’re going to get cold in a bit."

I never knew what he had been keeping them for, but the fact that he thought of and gave them to was all that mattered. I just liked that he protected .

I put them on right there, sitting on the bar stool. He pretended to check sothing at the cash register, but I knew he was watching.

From that day on they beca part of the outfit. I take care of them with too much care, folding them in a way that leaves no chance of them tearing.

Gifts deserve to be looked after — they matter — and these ones especially.

And over everything else, my favorite piece.

I took it from the top drawer, where I always keep it folded with more care than anything else I own. A thick-wool sweater, oversized for my fra, that always slips off my left shoulder no matter how many tis I adjust it.

My grandmother gave it to sixteen years ago. She expected to grow taller — five foot nine, like my mother — so it would fit properly. But at sixteen I stopped changing, and the sweater stayed big. I wouldn’t trade it for one in my size. I never would.

What makes this sweater special isn’t the wool, or the knit, or the fact that it’s the warst thing I own. What makes it special is its color.

It’s not white.

Well, not entirely. My grandmother bought it white. And when she showed it to , I looked at it with that face she knew well — the face I make when I rember the laughter, the nicknas, and the abandonnt.

She didn’t ask what was wrong. She just went to the kitchen, ca back with the coffee pot, and poured the coffee directly onto the wool with the sa calm with which she did everything.

"If you stain the sweater a little, it’ll leave behind that white you hate," she spread it with her hands, working it through the whole garnt without rushing. "We let it sit for ten minutes and that’s it."

She washed it carefully, hung it in the sun, and when it dried it was no longer white. It was a soft, warm color — born from perfection but stained to my liking.

"Ta-da," she said. "A white sweater that isn’t white."

I ca closer to touch it. I ran my fingers over the soft wool. I understood sothing in that mont that I didn’t know how to put into words until much later.

That was love.

I put it on that afternoon and didn’t take it off for three days.

I adore the way Nolan looks at when it slips off my shoulder and exposes my collarbone. But I know he gets upset if anyone else does. That’s why I always wear a white t-shirt underneath, with the collar peeking out, so he doesn’t worry.

For him and my own choices, the world sees exactly what I allow it to see.

I looked at myself one last ti in the mirror. With the sweater on, the black stockings, my hair falling over my shoulders — I looked like the Girl of Reason from my grandmother’s story. Only with bandages. And to , that was beautiful.

This is the kind of love I had longed for since I was a child — one that loves the way I love my sweater.

"Goodbye, photo of Nolan number forty-one. Goodbye, photo of Nolan number forty-two," I said, kissing each of their foreheads.

I left ho at seven-thirty, after everyone else in the building had already gone out.

I took the stairs down three flights because the elevator takes three minutes to co down — I wasn’t in a hurry, but I hated that place anyway. The third step on the second floor is always wet; I don’t know why, it never is on other days, only on Wednesdays.

I pushed open the building door and the morning cold was a caress that woke all my senses at once.

The street at that hour is different. Not the Tuesday street with its sll of burnt at and its visible cobblestones. This was a street still half-asleep, with closed businesses and lowered shutters and Mrs. Prats sweeping the sidewalk in front of her house with a straw broom, unhurried.

"Good morning, Mrs. Prats," I greeted her. "Early as always."

"Hello, dear," she said. "You look wonderful today."

"Thank you very much," I smiled.

I walked toward the café, already imagining the sll of its spices and the sound of his voice — wondering whether Nolan had slept well, whether the cut on his arm had bothered him during the night, whether he had rembered to disinfect it before going to sleep or if he had left it for the morning the way he does with everything he doesn’t consider urgent.

I heard a branch move behind .

When I turned, it was only a pretty yellow bird, sitting there without bothering anyone.

I stopped for a mont to look at it. Its feathers were perfectly arranged, its eyes small and bright, and it didn’t seem to be in any hurry at all.

There was no hunter anymore — only perfection.

"My world," I whispered, and smiled.

"Today I’ll be the whitest version of myself for you, Nolan," I murmured as I pushed open the café door. "A sweater ready for your coffee."

The clink clink of the bell announced my arrival. The stage was set. The performance of the perfect girl had just begun — but the prize was the sa as always: his validation, and his stain.