"So you're failing in literature?"
— Not a blockage… I just don't understand what the author wanted to say. Couldn't writing be simpler?
"Then you definitely need help,— I said. — I just have a free evening.
"Then come." Today. I won't have anyone at home.
Miyako said it calmly, but then she immediately turned away.
As if she regretted it.
And I... agreed. Sure.
Her room was quiet
Two chairs. One table.
Notebooks, textbooks— and tea in mugs.
And outside the window there is a warm spring light.
"And here the author is not just talking about love," I explained, "but about the fear of losing what he has not yet received.
"That sounds... familiar."
I looked at her.
She quickly averted her eyes to the page.
"You look like that a lot,— I said quietly. — It's like you want to say something, but you don't say anything.
— And you're often silent, as if you know, but you don't want to talk.
We both grinned.
And for a second, everything froze.
There was only breathing and the faint sound of a clock.
We read on
Sometimes we exchanged glances.
Sometimes the hands accidentally touched on the table.
Neither of us pulled away.
In the late afternoon, when her head was already spinning from the lines and meanings, Miyako put her head in her hands.
"I'm tired." But I'm happy. You explain it well.
— And you understand it well. Even if you don't admit it.
She looked at me from under her elbow.
"You know, I like it when you speak softly.
— And for me, when you smile, it's not for show.
Pause.
—Then... stay longer." Just a little more. Can I?
I stayed.