7%

[7%]

“Seven percent.”

Rather than reply, Slaine cast a quick glance at Inaho. Their eyes met, and Inaho tilted his chin slightly in question.

“Does it mean anything to you?”

Slaine looked away. That was enough. His silence said no, and Inaho went on.

“It’s the percentage of verbal information in communication understanding. Just seven percent.”

“Hm.”

“Thoughts?”

He asked it immediately, as if exhaling the words. Slaine sensed the weight behind it—troublesome, perhaps—but gave a straightforward answer.

“Sounds about right.”

Even troubles can be distracting. He didn’t care for this kind of talk, but it wasn’t that he disliked this man.

“Words are powerless.”

“So that’s why you don’t talk?”

Slaine said it, and Inaho shot back without pause. Slaine almost snapped back with sarcasm, but something about Inaho’s quiet, sincere expression made him pause. He thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“It’s not that deliberate.”

Inaho listened without a word. Slaine glanced at the mirror.

“You can’t put all your thoughts—everything you feel—into words.”

He chose his words carefully, wondering how many people stood on the other side of the one-way mirror behind Inaho. It wasn’t the kind of talk he’d mind being overheard, but he didn’t want them to hear. Conversations like this, with this man.

“Ignored. Misread. Twisted. Then it turns into something worse. If that’s the case, I’d rather not plant any seeds at all.”

He wished the people behind the glass would believe he wasn’t being sincere. That he was a liar, a coward, a manipulator looking to play for pity. That thought only came afterward—but he hoped for it, nonetheless.

Because otherwise, what’s the point of him being here?

“…Still.”

After a long silence, Inaho spoke softly.

“Maybe that’s all we have.”

Slaine clenched his teeth. Dammit. That’s what makes it hard. That’s what makes this man troublesome. He never lies. And because of that, Slaine finds himself spilling truths he never meant to say. He can’t hide behind falsehoods or brush things off with careless words. There’s something in this man’s voice that doesn’t allow it.

“Understanding and expressing aren’t the same.”

He knew the soldiers behind the glass could hear that, too. He didn’t care about Inaho’s position—but it made him uneasy.

“In the end, words are all we have. If you want to be understood.”

He bit down hard. Shut his eyes tight. Behind his lids, he saw that last face on the monitor—tear-streaked, breaking.

She had said everything she could. He had heard her, but he’d already shut his heart away. So…

“Even if you understand… does it change anything?”

If time could be turned back, would he have done anything differently? No. Probably not. They had grown too far apart. He couldn’t believe in words. Couldn’t believe in anyone. Miracles didn’t happen. He had nothing—no dream, no future. Just one desire.

To create a world where she could smile and live. That alone.

So he ignored her words. Her honest, heartfelt words.

“I’ve betrayed those kinds of words. Over and over. More times than I can count.”

There it was again. Another thing he never meant to say. He didn’t want anyone to hear it. He shouldn’t want to be understood.

“I hurt people. I silenced words on purpose.”

And yet he thought it. Felt it.

Everything stopped. Or so it seemed. He forgot to move. Just kept breathing. His fingernails dug into his palms, pain flashing through him, jolting him back. He blinked.

He heard the sound of someone shifting. Looked up. Inaho had placed both hands on the table, fingers intertwined, his lone eye fixed on Slaine.

“It’s okay. Even so.”

His voice echoed strangely—in his ears, or maybe deeper, in his chest.

“If it reached someone, then it wasn’t meaningless.”

Slaine found his hand at his chest, clutching the pendant so tightly it bent out of shape.

[7%]