Two-Butterfly Cocoon

Sometimes when we're taking the covered walkway toward the chemistry building, his eyes go distant and look away to my left, and I know he's looking at the greenhouse that's there by the pathway. It's a little out of place there, I know, and the student council has been talking about moving it for ages, but somehow it's still standing. There's a sign on the door – entry forbidden, or something of that nature. I've never been that close to actually see what it says, but it's quite a popular spot for the after school activities that go on around here, and I hear from my friends, who whisper about it between classes and giggle.

All the rosebushes are grown over inside. You can see it even from the archway, all gray and green stems tangled together, wild nature inside that shut up space. I don't see any flowers though, just stems, though I suppose that might because the glass is so dirty you can't see much but shadows. They used to be such beautiful roses until the girl who had been taking care of them suddenly left school. I guess no one else at this school cares about gardening.

Figures.

Then I look at him and I say, what's wrong, Miki? And he blinks at me, his eyes going all blurry and then focusing again, and he says, oh nothing. Was I daydreaming again?

I always smile fondly when he says that and punch him lightly in the shoulder, because he's always been a dreamer, ever since we were little children together, and I don't think he'll ever stop being one even when he graduates and goes on to university. Our parents always said I was the level-headed one.

That figures, too.

Then a bunch of little kids at recess will run by chasing a ball or a hoop or something and Miki will stop in his tracks and watch them. I'll stop with him too, watching, knowing he is remembering when we were little children too, and we look at each other and smile.

"It's such a nice day, Kozue-chan," he'll say. "Let's take our lunch to the lake today and have a picnic."

And then I'll nod my head at him, and he'll know that it's impossible to smile wider than we already are, and so he'll nod back and that's the signal to start walking again, past the old, grown-over greenhouse, on the way to class.