Loafers dragging lazily against the pavement, Sana hopes that the people passing by don't notice her stinging puffy eyes or the way she's gripping onto her phone a tad too tight. Forget the fact that she'd gotten a manicure done two days ago - if it means she gets something to hold on to, she can deal with a chipped nail. 

Before the helpline calls, Sana would, without fail, embark on the two-mile-long journey home with her headphones on and allow her mind to wander. Since her conversations (more like sob sessions) with Momo, the girl couldn't seem to stand the same tired playlist of love ballads, nor the Pompompurin headphones she'd received as a Secret Valentine's gift from her now-boyfriend. Her brows furrow for an instant at the thought of her boyfriend. 

A loafer scrapes against the concrete particularly loudly and Sana reminds herself why she bothers to walk home. There may be a bus that stops at her school, the park entrance and a little ways away from her house, but with the promise of quick transport comes unwanted add-ons like noise and stinky boys. Sana's concluded that thirty minutes of undisturbed contemplation is probably best for her. 

Yet today? Today, the two-mile long stretch was twenty-five percent complete and she'd barely given herself the opportunity to be introspective about more pressing issues. She shouldn't be worrying about non-existant relationship problems with Minho. 

So she lets herself drift into the memory of the, more one-sided than not, conversation she had with Momo ten minutes ago. Sana remembers hearing Momo's innocent little "okay", and couldn't tell if it was meant to reassure her or to soothe her. Because the next thing she clearly recalls is that indescribable sensation which creeped into her nose and that nauseating lump which grew at the back of that, together, screamed: Sana you're going to ugly cry. 

In actuality, she could only sense thin streams dampening locks of her hair right as she chokes out a: "Four years ago, I hurt my best friend." Then, anticipating confusion about why she'd even mention friendship disputes to an LGBTQ helpline volunteer, she explains herself. Something along the lines of "My uality made me do it" or "…Yes, it's linked to my uality."

The Japanese girl, now halfway through her route though, winces at the lingering aftertaste of the guilt that wrecked her senses. It's the reason why she grabbed the plush face of her Hello Kitty backpack and slammed it against her forehead endlessly as Momo's words fell in one ear and out the other. It's the reason why Sana can't pin down exactly what Momo told her after she'd confessed that. 

No, wait.

Stopping in her tracks and letting the gradated expanse of sky, sun and clouds interrupt her spiralling mind, she gets out that tiny imaginary safe labelled "Momo" and finds this: "Shh…I'm all ears, I'm here. If you're comfortable, you can speak your mind. I won't judge you for the things you've done in the past."  

Sana gazes at the insignificant details of her surroundings - the aging street signs, cracks in the asphalt, pairs of pigeons pecking at nothing. Doesn't spare too much mental energy to actually think about them; hundreds of Momo-related questions take turns to pop in and just as quickly fade into the back of her mind. Among them: 

"How does she always sound so genuinely sweet?"

"Why does she keep saying that "she's here" and why do I like it even if I know she's physically not there?"

"Did she really not judge me even after I told her about all that?" 

"How can a stranger make me feel so cared for?" 

She'd want to remain there, pausing and thinking about Momo. She'd want to remain there with heels planted solid into the ground, but the pigeons are squawking and drops of rain are increasingly striking against her skin. Nothing…then, audibly swift and steady steps sound out adjacent to the pitter patter of the drizzle. 

Sana's now neutral toward the fact that she skipped the distraction of music this journey back home. On one hand, the lull of her idols' voices would (might) drown out the mellow timbre of Momo's voice. She doesn't want that; she only gets two opportunities every week to speak to the volunteer and she wants to remember it as clear as can be. 

On the other hand, a wave of embarassment inches closer with each step she takes. Sana recalls the warmth of the late afternoon sky and pouts at how mercurial the weather's been - it's dark and pouring now. Lifting the semi-waterproof blazer over her head, she quickens her footsteps into a near-sprint. With the embarassment-guilt combination comes a dialogue spliced haphazardly:

"Of course I liked her, doesn't every gay girl get a crush on their best friend-" 

The small puddles leave splashes of water stained on the faux-leather of her shoes. Sana winces for another reason. 

Momo's silence pressed her to carry on. 

"I thought she looked at me differently. She hugged me longer than she did the others, I-"

Her street's name around the bend, Sana recognises that her journey is nearly eighty-percent complete and she turns the sprint into a light jog. In spite of the slowing of her pace, the conversation speeds along. 

"I fell, Momo, I was obsessed, I was addicted to someone who wasn't even mine, I-"

Sana bunches and holds the sleeves of her blazer to her ears in a vain attempt to ignore her thoughts. 

"S-chan," Momo whispered into the microphone, a shaky breath escaping along with it. "You were young and still trying to figure out who you were. That's not your fault. Your heart-"

"I betrayed her! I hurt her! So bad! If I didn't it up, she wouldn't have fallen into that depressed- state she was in for like months! If I didn't do it, I-" 

Echoes of it all hit her harder and harder and she remembers screaming it all out louder and louder. In her head, amplified: 

"If I hadn't gotten so jealous, she would've never given me that look the next day, and the day after that, I-"

"I was too clingy, maybe that's why I started to like her, but I'm super clingy with like everyone so I-"

"I deserve it - her not talking to me I mean. I deserve that for the I put her through-"

And then, that deafeningly full-throated statement:

"Why was I born like this? I wish I wasn't born like this. If I weren't bi, this-"

And then, a deafeningly hushed statement: 

"Never say that.

Never. Say. That."

Momo suspended her self-deprecating introspection with those three simple words.

It wasn't the stark contrast between Sana's booming whines and Momo's tender voice that set her straight. It's the finality of those three words plus the ten from "your uality is never the sole cause for your sadness," that followed.

Sheer finality. 

A reality that Sana knows is true, though whether she believes it is another thing. 

"So," the volunteer digresses, a resigned sigh as she continued, "What do you think is the best way to go about this?" 

The darkest shade of navy blue illuminated slightly by the street lamps which had just flickered on. Sana hears the infrequent honks of cars as they drive by, the buzzing of nightflies, the jingle of her keys muted on impact with her fluffy pink fuzzball of a keycharm. She leans against the gate and looks back - two miles back - into the blurred outline of the park. 

Remembers how she blanked out at that question, roled over, stomach-down, and began to twist the fragile stems of wildflowers around her fingers. She remembers the light sound of Momo's breathing and how it made the pleasant chirps of bluejays and rustling of leaves sound that much more peaceful. It's had even sent tickles down her spine.

She remembers letting her eyelids fall.

"S-chan?" 

Sana grazes her thumb over the pastel keycharm and swoons at the way she sounded. Cherishes it, places an imaginary signpost over the memory, still packaged in the now bigger "Momo" box, with "Important!" painted in a large red font. Remembering her call her by that name, with that honorific, she recollects the first time Momo's called her that. 

Their first conversation.

"You can call me Momo-" 

"S" 

"Huh?" 

"Call me S."

It was for anonymity. 

"Okay, S-chan, I'll call you S."

Momo just had to individualize it. 

What with the way Momo speaks with her, it's almost as if every line, every counter is personalized and not something helpline employees are forced to regurgitate from a tired guide. 

The schoolgirl remembers how she'd finally replied,  kind of in a joke-like tone, how a professional therapist would advise her to "apologize", but that she herself would be "too much of a ing chicken to do it".

She remembers how Momo chuckled, a hint of something off in the way she did so, but still cute nonetheless, and admitted shyly that she "can relate, but without the curse word".

Then, a pregnant pause. 

Sana wonders about Momo, now, stood in the middle of her backyard garden right beside the towering camphor tree. 

She wraps her arms around the trunk of it, lets her cheek rest against its rough bark and just wonders about her. Because sh