The rain had stopped, but the streets of Tokyo still shimmered, wet and slick, like the city was crying itself dry. Kazuki Harada trudged through Bunkyo Ward, his sneakers squishing with every step, his sweater soaked and heavy, sticking to him like a bad memory. The October air bit at his skin, sharp with the smell of damp asphalt and cedar trees, but it couldn't cut through the haze in his head. His glasses were fogged and streaked, sliding down his nose, but he didn't care to fix them. His chest ached, a tight, clawing pain that squeezed harder with every thud of his heart, spreading to his arm, his jaw—a scream from his body he couldn't ignore. Still, he kept walking, pulled like a moth to a flame toward Waseda University, to the garden bench under the cherry tree where he'd first met Emiko, where their story had started with petals and promises.
The campus was hushed, its paths nearly empty except for a few students darting to night classes, their laughter floating like ghosts in the air—too far from the life Kazuki knew now. The cherry tree waited at the garden's edge, its branches naked, no blossoms, just brittle brown leaves that snapped and crunched under his feet. The bench sat there, old and worn, its wood cold and wet as he dropped onto it, his hand brushing the rough slats. Past and present slammed together here, a messy tangle of what was and what is, the sakura that once fell like soft snow now just rotting scraps beneath him. He shut his eyes, the pain in his chest growling low, and let the memory swallow him whole, sharp as a broken bottle.
It was April 2016, his second year at Waseda, the cherry trees exploding with pink, petals blanketing the ground like a fairy tale. Kazuki had been late, rushing to a literature seminar, his arms stuffed with books—Dostoevsky, Kawabata, a beat-up Tale of Genji—his glasses slipping, one shoelace flapping loose. He didn't see the root jutting up from the path, didn't feel it snag his foot until he was tumbling, books flying, petals swirling around him like a pink blizzard. Then a hand grabbed his arm, small but steady, pulling him back from the fall. "Careful, hero," a voice chirped, warm and playful, and he looked up into Emiko's face—her eyes dancing, a petal stuck to her cheek like a kiss from the tree. Her laugh rang out, a soft tinkle-tinkle like wind chimes on a spring day, and that word, "hero," hit him like sunlight, warming him from the inside out.
They'd picked up his books together, her fingers brushing his as they reached for the same one, a little shock zipping through him. She plucked a petal from his hair, holding it up with a grin. "Sakura make everyone clumsy," she'd said, and he'd turned red, ears hot, words tripping over themselves. They walked to class, her chatting about Murakami and sleepy mornings, him nodding, quiet but hooked. When they split, she waved, her sleeve slipping to show a fox charm bracelet jangling on her wrist, and called, "See you around, hero." He'd stood there, dumbstruck, the petal she'd given him tucked in his pocket, his heart pounding with something new, something alive.
Now, on the bench, Kazuki opened his eyes, and the memory faded into the cold, hard now. That "hero" word tasted sour now, like rust in his mouth. He'd been her hero once holding an umbrella over her in summer rain, steadying her on icy steps, carving their initials in secret on the Hibiya bridge. But heroes don't shatter like this, don't buckle under the sound of her laugh with someone else, the creak of a bed that wasn't theirs. He saw it again: the apartment, crushed macarons on the floor, Emiko's shape moving with Riku Sano, his stupid watch flashing in the light. The pain in his chest flared, a wild animal clawing to get out, and he pressed his hand hard against it, fingers digging into the wet wool, like he could trap his heart from breaking apart.
He wanted to cry, to let tears blur away that picture burned into his mind, but nothing came just a dead, heavy numbness that had started in the foyer mirror, where he'd caught his own reflection: no smile, eyes wide and dark, a stranger staring back. The leaves under his feet went crunch, crunch as he shifted, their rot matching the mess inside him. He thought of the notebook in his bag, its navy cover faded, pages full of love letters he'd never sent little prayers for a life with her, now just dust. He pulled it out, the paper cold against his shaky fingers, and flipped it open: October 7, 2018. Hibiya Park, the bridge. She laughed about carving our initials. I want to make it real. The words stung like a slap, and he snapped it shut, hugging it to his chest, the pain spiking, a red-hot alarm he couldn't silence.
The campus was still, the air thick with the smell of wet dirt and a hint of smoke from a food stall somewhere close. Kazuki ran his thumb along the bench, feeling every nick, every groove, remembering how they'd come back here after that first day sharing fish-shaped taiyaki, giggling over lecture notes, her head resting on his shoulder as petals drifted down. Each memory was a splinter, digging deeper, and he wondered how he'd missed it all her phone always face-down, her late nights after drinks with friends, the way her "I love you" started sounding flat. He'd chosen to believe, to trust, and now he was falling, his heart tumbling through a black hole where hope used to be.
A girl walked by, her umbrella bouncing, her laugh a soft ripple, and Kazuki flinched—it was too much like Emiko's, too cruel in its happiness. He thought of that nature documentary they'd watched, snuggled on the couch, her hair tickling his neck. "Wolves mate for life," the narrator had said, "loyal even when the world turns cold." He'd felt so sure they were like that, tied by something unbreakable. Now it mocked him. Even wolves get it, he thought, the bitterness slicing through the fog. He wanted to yell, to smash the bench, the tree, this whole place that held their start, but his voice was stuck, trapped in the same empty pit as his tears.
The pain in his chest roared now, a storm crashing inside him, each wave stealing his breath, blurring his sight. He knew the signs—chest pain, hard breathing, that ache spreading out—words he'd read in pamphlets, now carved into his bones. His heart was breaking, literally and not, betraying him just like she had. He heard Satsuki's voice in his head, her worried voicemail: "Kazuki, please, see a doctor. I'm scared for you." He wanted to call her, to spill it all, but his phone felt miles away in his bag, lost in the haze of his hurt.
He stood, wobbly, his ankle whining as he moved. The cherry tree towered over him, its branches swaying like they were judging him, seeing it all—their first hello, his last goodbye. He thought of the bridge, the kana he'd scratched into it, the proposal he'd practiced under glowing lanterns. He thought of her fox charm, the notes he'd slipped under her teacup, every one a piece of him she'd thrown away. The pain hit again, a fire that burned through the numbness, and he gasped, grabbing the bench, his glasses slipping off one ear.
The campus lights blinked on, throwing a chilly glow over the garden, and Kazuki stepped forward, then again, his bag dragging at his shoulder, the notebook his only lifeline. He didn't know where he was headed—just away from here, from her laugh, her "hero" that now tasted like poison. The city sprawled out ahead, its neon lights smearing into the wet night, and he walked, a shadow slipping through the crowd, his heart still falling. But somewhere, buried in the ache, a tiny spark flickered—a need to write, to turn this hurt into something that could live. He didn't see it yet, but that spark was Shiku, a story growing from the wreckage of his love, a thin thread to pull him through.
The leaves went crunch, crunch under his shoes, a sad little song as he walked, his sweater clinging like a wet dog refusing to let go. The air was cold, sneaking into his bones, matching the ice in his chest. He smelled grilled squid from a vendor nearby, a whiff that yanked him back to nights with Emiko—sticky fingers, shared bites, her smile lighting up the dark. Now it just twisted the knife deeper.
He passed the literature building, its windows black and blank, and for a second, he saw them there—him and Emiko on the steps, her laughing as he read Norwegian Wood out loud. "You're such a sap, Kazuki," she'd teased, her voice sweet as syrup. Now it was a lie, and he hated how much he still missed it. How didn't I see? he thought, his breath hitching as the pain clawed again. Her late nights, her excuses, the way she stopped looking at me. He'd been a fool, and now he was paying for it, his heart a wounded bird flapping uselessly inside him.
His steps slowed, his vision swimming as the pain grew teeth, biting harder. It was like his heart was fighting to break free, to run from the hurt she'd left behind. Thump, thump, thump—each beat was a punch, a reminder he was still here, still breaking. Sweat beaded on his forehead, cold and clammy, and he couldn't catch his breath. He knew he should stop, should get help, but who could he face like this, a mess of hurt and shame?
He stopped by the Grand Slope, the cherry trees lining it bare and bony, reaching up like they were begging the sky for answers. In spring, it'd been a wonderland, but now it was a graveyard of what used to be. He leaned against a trunk, the bark scraping his hand, and shut his eyes. Was I too soft? Too blind? The questions spun, a storm in his head, tearing at what was left of him.
Students walked by, their chatter a bright hum, and it stung—too close to her, too alive. He thought of the wolves again, loyal and fierce, and how he'd thought they were the same. What a joke, he spat to himself, the taste of it bitter. The pain was a beast now, roaring through him, and he gripped his chest, fingers white-knuckled, like he could wrestle it down. His sister's voice came again "I'm worried" and he ached to hear her, but he couldn't drag her into this pit.
He pushed off the tree, stumbling forward, his bag heavy, the notebook a lifeline he didn't deserve. The lights glowed cold, and he felt like a ghost, drifting through a world that didn't see him. But that spark flickered again, small but stubborn—a whisper to write, to bleed this pain onto a page, to make something out of nothing. Maybe Shiku could save him, just a little.