WildFire

7

It was strange, you thought, that Kunimi had started avoiding you after the match. 

You had spent hours painting in the park, just hoping that a certain someone would peek over your shoulder. Ducks and mountain peaks, starfish and the starry night sky filled canvas after canvas, but no one came to admire them.

You were becoming drastically worried for your friend, then furious. 

Oh, so furious–both at yourself and him. What had you done wrong to lead to this behavior? You didn't know. 

You wanted to, though. You wanted to find him, to ask him why. You were irritated that he started ignoring you without reason. You were so lonely without him.

You would never admit it to anyone including yourself, but he was the only friend you had. 

At school, you could never call the group you sat with your friends–they were just your disguise; your pathetic, pathetic disguise that made you look normal.

The thought of Kunimi disappearing from your life made you want to hurl–to bawl and break down. You never wanted him to know though, you never wanted him to find out your lonely, petty self. 

That's why to hide this fact, you lashed out in anger when you finally saw him.

"Why are you avoiding me?" you demand, a few weeks later when you finally see him. You hadn't even found him in the park, instead you had found him while wandering in the streets of your neighborhood. 

You scowled. "You've been doing so for weeks. Weeks, Kunimi, weeks."

Kunimi looked away, clearly annoyed with your straightforward confrontation. "I don't know."

You scoffed, crossing your arms at the obvious lie. It was irritating you, why was he bothering now? 

"Yeah, right," you said, rolling your eyes, only to be met with silence. "After that volleyball match that you invited me to, you just went MIA, without reason!"

"I don't know," Kunimi repeated, his voice scarily even.

"Don't say that–you do know."

"I already told you, I don't know what you're talking about," Kunimi said, his voice coming out almost like a growl. It scared you to hear him talk like that, yet also angered you.

"Stop trying to be vague!" you shouted, exasperated at his antics. "Do you–do you even know–"

"Know what?" Kunimi spat, bristling with indignation. You widened your eyes in surprise, you had never seen him shout at anyone. 

Kunimi let out a dry laugh, "Know what? That you missed me?"

You had wanted to say that–that you missed him. 

But now, stubbornness bubbled up, forcing those words back down your throat.

 Instead, more harsh words came out of your careless mouth. 

"I wasn't going to say that!" you yelled–lied–tears pricking your eyes. You blinked furiously, suppressing your urge to cry. "It was a simple question! Why did–why would you avoid me?"

Another silence.

You took in a deep breath, trying to relax your body unsuccessfully. You started running through the possibilities of why again, those dozens of nightmare possibilities haunting your thoughts once again. 

You wondered bitterly if Kunimi would avoid the question again, to duck away again.

"3 points scored," he finally muttered, and you looked up to meet his gaze–which was as cold and bland as ever. "9 receives. You know how many people score on their first ever match with people who have practically played for their entire life? Zero. You know how many months people practice to get a perfect receive?"

It took you a moment to process what he was saying. 

You frowned, he was jealous of your volleyball skills–that didn't even make sense. 

Was he implying that you didn't practice at all? That you hadn't burned sweat to improve your skills? Did he completely forget the days he had spent with you, helping you to improve your form because you wanted to impress him?

 He avoided you because...you got better at volleyball? And why would he even care that much?–his team won anyway.

"What are you saying?" you asked, furrowing your brows in confusion.

Kunimi threw out his arms, exasperated. Looking straight at you, he said,"You're great at volleyball, you could be a national player if you wanted to."

"But," you blinked slowly, not understanding where this conversation was going. "I don't want to play volleyball."

"Exactly!" Kunimi exclaimed. "You have talent–talent that could change your life–and yet, and yet you waste all your talent on your so-called art! You waste your potential on scribbling!"

You glared at him, indignation rising up as he insulted your art. 

"Why should it even matter?" you asked, "just because someone has talent or is naturally good at something, doesn't mean they should do it. Shouldn't they spend their life working towards something that makes them happy?"

That's what you thought, and you had thought that Kunimi understood.

"My scribbles are what make me happy," you snapped, emphasizing the word 'scribbles'. "They're what's important in my life, why can't you see that? I thought you understood..." because you were the only person who ever appreciated my art, you thought, but kept quiet.

"But you do like volleyball," Kunimi insisted, "I saw you during the match. You liked it–perhaps even more than your paintings. I know you could be an amazing volleyball player: someone that one day might play for the nationals!"

"Just because I can do something doesn't mean I should or want to," you argued, annoyed at his persistence. "Why are you trying to make me do something that I don't want to do? What I do with my life isn't up to you! You can't decide what I should do–that's for me to do!"

"I'm not deciding for you!" Kunimi said. "I'm trying to help you see your talent, but you won't let me because of your self-centered, stubborn stupidity!"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at his excuse. 

"You're just jealous, aren't you?" you accused. "You see something you want that I have, yet I'm not using it. Well, I'm not you, I don't want to be a professional volleyball player or whatever you say I should be. This is my life–I can do whatever I like."

"Fine," Kunimi snapped, turning away. "Do whatever with your stupid life–keep wasting it on your useless art."

"I will!" you shout, also turning away. 

You remembered a thought you had a few months ago–kids were better than adults? Adults had their own ideas of morality? Adults were too stubborn to listen to anyone else?

"Ha," you murmur, closing your eyes to prevent the tears from falling. "When did I become like them?"