The park near Kazuki Harada's cramped Tokyo apartment was a quiet patch of green, a lone cherry tree standing like a tired old friend in the middle of it all. Its leaves danced slow in the October breeze, little green flags waving goodbye to a spring long gone. Kazuki slumped on a splintered bench, his sweater soggy and cold, sticking to him like a second skin he couldn't peel off. Rain streaked his glasses, blurring the world, but the tears he held back stung worse. His chest ached, a heavy thud-thud-thud, like his heart was punching to get out, mad and hurt and lost all at once. Emiko's betrayal sat there, a rock in his gut, her shadow burned into his brain—her smile, her lies, the love he'd trusted now just dust blowing away.
He stared at the ground, where wet leaves lay scattered, crumpled like promises she'd tossed aside. The air smelled of damp dirt, sharp and real, mixing with the far-off hum of the city—a low hmmmm that felt like it was laughing at him, at how small and silent he'd become. His phone sat heavy in his pocket, ignored since he'd stumbled out of the apartment hours ago. He couldn't touch it, couldn't risk hearing her voice spinning more excuses, or worse, nothing at all—just quiet where she used to be. But as the sky turned purple with dusk, it buzzed—bzzz, bzzz—sharp and nagging, slicing through the fog in his head.
His hands shook as he fished it out, the screen glowing harsh against the dimness. Satsuki. His big sister's name stared back at him, bold and steady. Eight voicemails blinked there, eight times she'd reached out while he'd been drowning. She was a writer, a real one—novels stacked on shelves across Japan, words that cut deep and healed slow. He'd been too wrecked to answer, but now his thumb hovered, then pressed play. Her voice spilled out, warm like tea on a cold night, but with an edge, like she was pulling him back from a cliff.
"Little brother," Satsuki said, soft but firm, "write something—bleed it onto paper before it poisons you."
The words hit him, simple but heavy, like a hand on his shoulder when he'd forgotten how to stand. He curled into them, his body folding forward, hugging that thought tight against the mess inside. He played it again, then again, her voice sinking in, cracking the ice around his heart. Satsuki knew pain—she'd lived it, carved it into stories that made strangers cry. She'd taken her own scars and made them sing, and now she was tossing him the same rope, telling him to climb out of this hole with a pen.
He dug into his bag, fingers clumsy, and pulled out his old navy notebook. Its edges were frayed, soft from years of carrying his secrets—love notes to Emiko once, stupid little foxes doodled in the margins, now just empty pages waiting for his mess. His hand trembled as he uncapped the pen, the blank page glaring up at him like a dare. Could words hold this? This fire in his chest, this ache that wouldn't quit? Satsuki's voice pushed him—bleed it out—and he pressed the pen down, hard enough to dent the paper.
October 12, 2023. The cherry tree drops leaves like tears, and I'm right there with it. Emiko's laugh used to be my safe place, now it's ringing in someone else's ears. I see her, bright and alive, and it's a knife twisting slow. This hurt's a flame I can't put out.
The words stumbled out, rough and messy, but they were his—real, raw, spilling like blood from a cut. He wrote about her, about them—the spring day under the Waseda cherry blossoms, her hand warm in his, the little notes he'd slide under her teacup, each one a piece of a life that wasn't his anymore. Every line burned, ripped the wound wider, but the pen kept moving, scratch-scratch-scratch, tethering him to something solid. The park faded to shadows, streetlights buzzing awake with a faint zzt-zzt, but he didn't care. His hand cramped, his glasses slid down his nose, sweat beaded cold on his neck, but the words poured, page after page.
Satsuki's voice looped in his head: Bleed it onto paper before it poisons you. He thought of her books, how she'd taken her own broken pieces and built something beautiful, something that mattered. Could he do that? Could this mess of ink and hurt turn into anything worth keeping? The phone buzzed again—bzzz—voicemail nine, but he couldn't stop, not yet. He needed the scritch of the pen, the ache in his fingers, the way it felt like he was clawing his way back to himself.
The cherry tree sighed above him, leaves rustling like whispers, and for the first time since Emiko tore him apart, he felt a spark—tiny, flickering, maybe hope, maybe just stubbornness. He snapped the notebook shut, his fingers brushing its worn cover like it was a friend who'd listened. He stood, legs wobbly, heart still heavy but not crushing him anymore. The pain stayed, a quiet thump-thump in his chest, but it wasn't all he was. He slid the notebook into his bag and shuffled toward the park's edge, city lights smearing into a hazy glow. He didn't know where he'd end up—Satsuki's place, maybe, or just another bench to write on—but the apartment was a ghost he couldn't face.
Her words wrapped around him, thin but tough, a lifeline pulling him through the dark.
The leaves crunched under his sneakers—crunch, crunch—a sad little song as he walked, the damp sweater clinging like a memory he couldn't shake. The air nipped at his skin, cool and sneaky, but there was a warmth flickering inside him now, faint like a candle in a storm. He caught a whiff of grilled squid from a stall down the street, sharp and smoky, tugging him back to nights with Emiko—her fingers greasy, her laugh loud, the world soft around them. Now it just twisted the hurt, but it didn't cut as deep, more a dull ache than a fresh stab.
A gaggle of students passed by, their voices a bright chatter-chatter, and he saw her in them—young, wild, the way she'd been before she slipped away. How didn't I notice? The thought clawed at him, her late nights, her excuses, the way her hand stopped finding his. He'd been blind, and now he was here, a fool picking up the pieces. His breath hitched, chest squeezing tight, thump-thump-thump, like his heart was yelling at him to figure it out. Sweat prickled cold on his forehead, his hands shook—he should stop, should call someone, but who'd want this mess?
He grabbed a lamppost, the metal cold and steady, and squeezed his eyes shut. Was I not enough? The question spun, a tornado ripping through him. But Satsuki's voice cut in, calm and sure: Write something—bleed it out. He clutched the notebook through his bag, its weight a quiet promise. The students' laughter faded, too much like hers, too alive. He'd thought they were wolves, loyal and strong, but she'd run off, left him howling alone. Idiot, he thought, bitter and small. The pain roared, a beast he couldn't tame, and he gripped his chest, knuckles white, like he could hold it in.
Satsuki's voice came again—"I'm worried"—and he wanted to hear her, wanted her to fix this, but he couldn't dump it on her, not like this. He shoved off the lamppost, stumbling forward, the bag thumping against his side. The lights glared, cold and far, and he felt like a shadow drifting nowhere. But that spark flickered again, stubborn as hell—a whisper to write, to let it out, to make something from this nothing. Maybe it could save him, just enough to keep going.