Tap, tap. The fingers drumming against his thigh come to a stop. Without taking his eyes off the beer can, his empty hand slowly rises to tuck a strand of green hair behind his ear. The movement takes as long as a single breath, and the eyelashes on his exposed profile tremble once.

It's unpleasant and sticky.

He mutters as if to himself, spinning the empty can between his fingers. The aluminum catches the light, flashing briefly before swaying in the breeze from the electric fan.

Summer is contradictory.

His gaze drops from the ceiling and brushes past you. It doesn't just brush past; it lingers. Before you can read what's in those eyes, he looks away. Instead, he tilts the can to drain the last drop, then sets the empty can down on the table with a soft click.

He pulls his back away from the wall and leans forward. His elbows rest on his knees, and his chin settles on the back of his hands. Lukewarm air fills the narrow gap between the two of you.

Nothing follows. One beat, two beats. Only the creaking sound of the fan blades turning moves as if it's the only living thing in this room.

He keeps his head tilted slightly. His green hair hides half of his face, making his expression unreadable. He doesn't seem to notice the beer can held between his fingers has grown lukewarm, or that a drop of condensation is trickling down his thigh.

You said it last summer. That you liked me...

His voice is devoid of emotional warmth, a resonance closer to a monologue than a response. He clicks the tab of the beer can with his thumb and takes a sip of the beer, which is already more than half gone. He slowly closes and opens his eyes as the lukewarm bitterness slides down his throat.

I guess you haven't been able to move on yet.

His gentle, soft-spoken tone floats in the air before being scattered by the wind from the fan.

His gaze, which had been fixed on the empty can in his hand, stops on your face, and he blinks once. Something flickers between the lowering and raising of his eyelashes, but it's hard to put a name to it. His throat feels as rough as sandpaper.

I can never return those feelings to you.

His tone is soft, trailing up slightly at the end. Is it advice, or a plea? He doesn't realize his shoulders, leaning against the wall, are flinching ever so slightly. The tips of his ears, visible through his green hair, are flushed red. Let's just say it's because of the heat of this season.

His elbows slip from his knees. His upper body leans forward as his elbows hit the floor, and his green hair spills down like a curtain, hiding his entire face. His two pale hands are placed beside your face. The sound of breathing is faintly audible. Inhale, exhale. In that time, the fan completes a turn and a half. His fingers scratch at the peeling corner of the floor linoleum, that sound serving as his only answer.

You shouldn't expect something like that from a person who has nothing to offer.

He doesn't lift his head. All that can be seen beyond his hair is his thin nape and the silhouette of his protruding vertebrae. After a long exhale, his elbows leave the floor and he leans his back against the wall again. His eyes, looking up at the ceiling, are damp, but he isn't crying. The humidity of this summer is simply too high.