His voice'd been muffled by his own damp hands scrubbing at his face, and the reply seemed almost automatic. Perhaps I was apologising too much?
                          
"I must be," I sighed, fingers toying with the vertex of the paper, "I can't not be sorry."
                          
"Yes, Kiyo, but you've said it more than once - one time is enough, okay? It's alright, it's been done, I'm not mad. I'm glad you took a break, really."
                          
He re-emerged from the room, tossing a damp, balled-up towel between both hands. Upon seeing me sat in front of the book, he cocked his head to one side. "What's that? If you don't mind me asking..."
                          
"Ah," I thumbed the page, feeling a slight sense of nervousness flicker in the pit of my stomach - "This? Well, it's... similar to the journals I write, rather... this one..." Tapping the paper, I managed a slight smile. "It's more personal. A diary, perhaps, simply... less clichéd. I write in it from time to time, perhaps the occasional illustration will make an appearance, too."
                          
- These "illustrations" varied from detailed, elaborately-constructed drawings of trees, insects, landscapes and the like, to angry, stressed-out scribbles, usually the product of some sort of pent-up emotion.
                          
"Oh!" Amami's face lit up, smile broadening as he hung the towel over the door handle, messing with his rings as he sat himself down onto the bed. "Would you mind if I took a look? It's cool if not, I get that it must be pretty private. It's alright to say no."
                          
For a second, I considered, mentally weighing my options for a moment - this book was rather personal, yes, but other than the occasional sketch or scrawl, there wasn't much else to it other than poetry - the words, for myself, carried a much deeper meaning than what might've appeared on the surface. To others, however, a poem was simply a poem, a string of words which sounded nice when voiced or read, nothing more, nothing less.
                          
Usually, they only ever scratched the surface. 
                          
"Kiyo?" 
                          
A voice, smooth, steady, bordering on a chuckle, interrupted my train of thought. Rantaro, as usual, was gently coaxing me back downwards to reality, and I did not mind.
                          
I blinked - once, twice, before turning my head towards him, embarrassed, slightly - "My apologies. I must have drifted..."
                          
Rantaro laughed - a resonant, adorable sound. I motioned for him to come stand beside me - and he did, sauntering happily over to the desk, kneeling and resting his elbows on the flat, wooden surface. 
                          
He glanced sideways at me, a small, contented smile gracing his features, waiting, not pushing for me to show him anything, just... looking. 
                          
His gaze carried no weight, no judgement, no expectancy, simply... Rantaro.
                          
- He was like an emotion in itself.
                          
"Would you like me to read to you?" I asked, once my nerves had begun to calm themselves. "Or perhaps I could complete a quick sketch for you, either will be fine, or we could just... look through the pages..."
                          
"The first one, please - you have a nice voice."
                          
My face seemed to flush slightly pink.
                          
"Why, of course," I mused, peeling page from page, flipping them backwards, skim-reading sentences scrawled in cursive, eyes poring over the papers until I'd found one I liked - Rantaro watched intently, keeping silent, his company undemanding, untaxing.