Ace of Hearts - Haikyuu || Short Stories || One Shots || Creative Rambles

Lost in Translation || Hanamaki Takahiro

I am a good student. I have always followed all the rules, colored within the lines of my life in pursuit of connecting all the right dots on the path of success. I know I have to focus. I know what I'm supposed to be doing.

And yet ... here I am staring at the window in class, ignoring my teacher as she explains how sometimes the structure of foreign poetry could get lost in translation, sometimes making the words lose their true or hidden meanings.

It's almost ironic how we're studying the works of people in love but love is what is keeping me from actually learning. You see, I don't really care about what's outside the window. The trees swaying in the wind don't hold any poetic meaning to me and I couldn't possibly care less about the bees hovering above the pink hyacinths along the sidewalk.

No, there is a more beautiful sight that's caught my eye than what's outside the window.

It's his reflection in the glass. He's my real poetry. He's the only symbolism I need. He's the verse my soul repeats. He owns the rhythm of my heart.

He just doesn't know it.

It's only in these quiet moments, that I can be free in my admiration. All other moments are shadowed by the obligations of our acquaintance or the anxiety of my love struck heart. I'm only his homework companion - the guardian of his academic success - and nothing more.

His future was the reason we were brought together in the first place. The only reason he is even aware of my minuscule orbit of his being is the necessity for his grades in literature and math to increase, exponentially. I serve a singular purpose: to teach him for two hours every other day and then to fade into the background.

So, I can be happy settling for watching the slightly warped, reflected version of him through the window - taking these moments to appreciate the way he's trying to fight off his boredom, the way his nose scrunches as he tries to balance his pencil above his lip, the way his lashes brush against his skin when he blinks.

Really, the way I found beauty in even these simplistic moments is almost artistic.

If he really were poetry, though, Takahiro would be a limerick. He's humorous and frequently rude, but he is an underrated breath of fresh air. He's unexpectedly clever, calculatingly crafty and, yet, still somehow respectable.

No matter what form he takes, though, it would always be my favorite.

"Hey Makki," I say, turning toward him at the end of class as I sling my bag over my shoulder. "What was the sickest poem ever written?"

He turns toward me, his sleepy eyes squinting as he tries to figure out what I'm asking before flashing me that scheming smirk I've grown so fond of.

"All poetry makes me sick," he responds, knowing he's effectively killed my joke.

"It's the Ill-iad," I groan through a pout as I send a straight-armed punch into his shoulder. "You never let me finish my jokes."

He chuckles at me as we walk into the hallway together. "That's because we both know that you should leave the humor to me. You're the smart one. I'm the funny one."

"I can be funny," I whine.

"Nahhh," he laughs. "You try too hard to make your jokes related to what we learned in class."

"But you always remember the things I joke about," I respond, unabashedly. "That makes me funny and a good tutor!"

"More like a sneaky tutor," he accuses and together we begin our short journey toward the gymnasium. He starts to talk about something his team captain did the other day that was "way more funny" than my joke and I get lost in my own head trying to find an even better educational joke to throw at him.

Halfway to the gym I turn my head toward him and try again. "Hey Makki," I say, trying to grab his attention away from whatever thoughts he's sunk into. "Why did the bear dissolve in water?"

He rolls his eyes at me, clearly still unimpressed and asks me why the bear dissolved in water. I throw him a huge grin before moving my head forward.

"Because he was polar!"

Makki literally groans at me and shakes his head in disappointment.

"Well excuse me," I say, taking mock offense. "I only make bad science puns because all the good ones Argon."

"Please. Stop," he says, throwing his hand over my mouth to prevent my giggles from escaping. "I don't deserve to suffer like this. You don't even tutor me in science."

"At least I got a reaction," I think to myself with a smirk.

We walk a few steps before he takes his hand off my mouth and it's even more before my heart recovers from his touch. Sometimes I wonder if he can hear the sonnets my heart beats out for him, if he can translate the language of affection my laughs speak - if he can see me trying hard to articulate my emotions in his native tongue.

"Practice may run a little late tonight," he says as we begin to part ways. "So I may be late to our tutoring session."

"Well, you know me. I'll always be waiting, Makki," I say with a small smile.

He turns away and enters the gym without a second thought about my words. He never does though. He isn't one to search for deeper significance.

I'll just chalk it up to the poetry of my love being lost in translation.