The apartment door clicked shut behind Kazuki Harada, a sharp snap that sliced through the stillness like a slap. Emiko and her lover were gone, leaving the place hollowed out, a shell of what it used to be. The air clung to him, thick with the fading whiff of her white lily perfume—a cruel little ghost that wouldn't let him forget. The refrigerator hummed low, a steady hmmmm, like it was the only thing still breathing in this dead space. Through the window, past the courtyard cherry tree, the city buzzed faintly, its sounds muffled, like whispers he couldn't catch. Kazuki stood there in the genkan, rooted, his sweater dripping wet and sticking to his skin like a lie he couldn't peel off. His glasses were fogged, rain-smeared, hiding the tears he wouldn't let fall. The macaron bag—crushed, crumpled—lay at his feet, a soggy mess from the moment he'd walked in and seen them, the moment his heart had split wide open.
This place didn't feel like his anymore. He moved slow, like a man wading through mud, into the living room. His eyes snagged on the low table—Emiko's chipped teacup sat there, cold and forgotten, her phone flipped face-down next to it, like it was ashamed. The tatami mats rasped under his sneakers, soft little shhh sounds that dragged up memories—her spinning barefoot to Utada Hikaru, giggling, pulling him into a clumsy dance. Now all he could see was her shadow tangled with Riku Sano's, her laugh sharp and wild, her moan cutting him deeper than any knife. The bedroom door stared at him from across the room, its frosted glass a blurry wall hiding the wreckage he'd walked in on. He turned away fast, his chest burning, the pain clawing up his ribs, tightening his jaw like a fist.
He dropped onto the couch, the cushions letting out a tired whoosh, and stared at the empty wall. Their photo used to hang there—Hibiya Park, sakura petals falling like confetti, her grin lighting up the frame, his arm slung around her like he'd never let go. He'd torn it down days ago, couldn't stand looking at that fake forever. Now the silence swallowed him, heavy as a tomb, locking him in with the broken bits of what they'd had. He couldn't leave, though—not yet. This place held him like a chain, like he was stuck mourning something that'd never really been his.
Then, through the haze, he heard Satsuki's voice, clear as a bell: "Write something. Bleed it onto paper before it poisons you." His sister, who'd turned her own hurt into stories, had said it over the phone last week, her tone firm but soft. The words stuck, a tiny flicker in the dark. Could he do that? Could he scrape this mess out of his chest and make it mean something?
His hands shook as he grabbed a notebook off the shelf—a plain B5, navy cover, solid in his grip. He'd bought it ages ago for work notes, translations he never got around to, but it'd sat there, waiting. He cracked it open, the pages snapping crisp and clean, a blank sea that matched the hole inside him. At the top, he scratched out Shiku in kanji—forty-nine, a heavy word, thick with pain, like it'd been carved just for him. Below it, he wrote October 12, 2023, the ink bleeding dark into the paper, pinning this day down—the day she'd wrecked him.
The pen hovered, trembling over the page. That white emptiness stared back, daring him to try. Where did he even start? How did you turn a smashed-up heart into words? He sucked in a breath, shaky and shallow, and let the pen hit paper. The first lines came slow, like pulling teeth: the garden at Waseda University, sakura petals floating down like snowflakes, Emiko grabbing his arm when he tripped, her laugh ringing out, bright as sunlight. He wrote about her dumb jokes, the way she'd called him "hero" with that teasing grin, the fox charm on her bracelet glinting as she moved. The words came out rough, messy, like shards of glass, but they were real—pieces of a happiness he'd lost, now twisted with her betrayal.
The scratch-scratch of the pen filled the quiet, a thin thread of sound tying him to something solid. The ink gleamed wet under the cold LED light, dark like the blood he felt leaking out of him. He kept going, couldn't stop—memories spilling out faster now, a flood he didn't want to dam up. The garden bench where they'd sat, the soft patter of petals hitting the ground, her voice weaving through it all. His hand ached, his glasses slid down his sweaty nose, but he didn't care. The pain in his chest throbbed with every word, a steady thump-thump, but it wasn't choking him anymore. It was like he was pouring it out, letting it drip onto the page instead of drowning in it.
He stopped, breath ragged, and looked at the lines he'd scratched down. The ink shone back at him, a lifeline he hadn't known he needed. The apartment still buzzed with her absence—the fridge's hum, the cherry tree's rustle outside—but the notebook was different. It held something alive, a spark flickering in the ashes. He shut it, slow, his fingers brushing the cover like it was a friend who'd sat with him through the worst. Standing up, the room felt too big, too empty. He shoved the notebook in his bag, the weight of it small but steady, and headed for the door. The cherry tree swayed beyond the window, leaves whispering shhh-shhh, like it was telling him to leave.
The floor creaked under his feet as he moved, each step a fight against the pull of this place. The air pressed down, thick and suffocating, like it wanted to trap him here forever. He snatched his bag tighter, the macaron wrapper crunching under his shoe one last time—a bitter little goodbye. Outside, the courtyard stretched dim and quiet, the cherry tree's branches dipping low, shedding leaves like tears. The city droned on past the gate, a restless hmmmm that felt too loud for the hole inside him. He zipped his jacket against the bite of the night, his breath puffing out in quick, fading clouds.
Where was he even going? Away—just away from here, from the echoes of her. Maybe the park, that lonely bench under the trees, or Satsuki's cramped apartment, though he couldn't face her yet, not with his heart still raw and oozing. The notebook bumped against his side, its pages full of hurt and maybe something else—Shiku, forty-nine days of grief, but maybe forty-nine days to claw his way back, too. It was a thin hope, fragile as a thread, but it was there.
His phone buzzed hard in his pocket, a sudden bzzz that jolted him. He fished it out, the screen glowing with Satsuki's name—ten voicemails now, her worry piling up like stones. He couldn't listen, not yet. She'd want to hug him, fix him, but he wasn't ready for that. He needed this ache, needed to feel it burn down to embers, needed to write it out until it stopped tearing him apart.
The street yawned ahead, wet and shimmering under the streetlights, neon signs flickering with a soft hiss. He walked, slow, his sneakers slapping the pavement, his heart still heavy but not crushing him anymore. The pain stayed, a dull thud-thud in his ribs, but it wasn't everything now. He had the notebook, the pen, that tiny spark of something new. Maybe it was enough to keep him moving, just for tonight.