In his sophomore year of high school, he transferred to another school and was assigned to sit at the same table as me in the last row.
He walks half a beat slower than others, and his prosthetic right leg makes a soft metallic sound when it lands on the ground. He was holding a small bag with him, which was bulging. During class, he always looked out the window, as if he was waiting for something.
I greeted him, and he nodded politely and lowered his head.
There is a narrow door between us.
Inside the door was his leg that hurt so much on a rainy day. He hooked my hand with his little finger for the first time, and held it in my hand. Beyond the first self, there were two surging hearts and red ear tips. At that time, maybe I knew it was you.
The narrow door is narrow enough for two people to squeeze through sideways.
Later he walked in front and I walked behind. He looked back at me in the light, and the corners of his mouth curved up - exactly the same smile as when he held my hand for the first time while lying on the desk more than forty years ago. He was still shy, but more calm.
The narrow gate has not changed, but it cannot pass through. The two people walked side by side from beginning to end.
I kept the key. Standing on the balcony every autumn, wearing the dark gray suit he left behind.
The wind is still blowing. The porridge is still cooking.
In the narrow door, someone responded softly.
Intention: It's not that you have to wait until you become complete to be worthy of being loved, but that you have just those gaps to be able to walk side by side with me.