On Nights When You Want to Speak But Can't | By Not Waiting, I Was Taking Away

Hello, this is Yukino.

It was a break in the rainy season.

The counseling room in the afternoon was a little cooler than outside, and only the sound of the air conditioner hummed low.

When that person entered the room, I was looking at the clouds beyond the window.
When I turned around, I saw them take one deep breath before sitting in the chair.

I still remember that day.

Sometimes, fingertips move before words do.

Trying to say something, unable to say it, one's gaze falls to their hands.

On their lap, their fingers move just a little.
Not curling, not stretching, just being there.

I don't know what that movement is trying to say.
But I can tell that something has descended there before it becomes words.

In the counseling room, I have seen such fingertips many times.

It was the same that day.

After a long silence, their mouth started to open slightly, then closed again.
That repetition continued three or four times.

I tried to say something, but stopped. I felt that if I touched them, the sound would vanish.

So, I placed my own hands on my lap and stayed quiet.

Only the sound of the air conditioner was in the room.

Before long, that person's fingertips stopped.
Then, words came out slowly.

The soft sound of words that finally emerged after a long time.
I still remember how they came out.

I learned little by little in the counseling room that waiting is not the same as doing nothing.

The me from a while ago used to try to fill the silence.
When the conversation stalled, I felt a sense that I had to offer something.
Whether it was comfort or a question.

I was once told by a senior colleague:

I felt those words pierce me right around the wrist.

I intended to offer, but I was taking away.

The reason why words don't come out is different for everyone.

Is it because they haven't taken shape yet?
Is it because they are afraid that once said, they can't be taken back?
Are they thinking too much about how it will be received?
Or perhaps, is there no longer a need to put it into words?

Rather than trying to guess which one it is, I've come to think that whatever it is, they are there right now.
I was able to think that way only after experiencing failure.

After the words came out, the hand on that person's lap seemed to open just a tiny bit.

It might have been my imagination.
But to me, it looked like the moment they let go, just a little, of something they had been holding onto for a long time.

I won't write here what was said.
Only the movement of those fingertips is something I still remember from time to time.

I don't know if that was the right thing to do.
I just wasn't waiting to try and draw something out.
I just wanted to be there.

There might be something inside you, too, that hasn't become words yet.

Even if it doesn't come out tonight, your fingertips are still moving.

The time before it becomes a voice is also a kind of word.

Yukino

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