Kazuki Harada slumped at the rickety desk in his old bedroom, the navy notebook splayed open like a wound. The air smelled of cedar and dust, heavy with the ghosts of a kid who used to scribble stories about heroes and happy endings. Now, the weight of Emiko's betrayal sat on his chest like a stone, crushing the air out of him. He gripped the pen, its plastic warm from his sweaty hand, and pressed it to the page. The ink spilled out, dark and thick, as he scratched the title: Shiku. Forty-nine—a number that felt like a curse, dripping with sorrow. October 17, 2023. Then he started writing, talking straight to her, Emiko, like she was still there, like she hadn't ripped his world apart.
You laughed at me, Emiko, when I butchered "camellia." We were strolling through Hibiya Park, the autumn leaves raining down in reds and golds, and I pointed at that flower, tripping over my tongue like some dumb kid. You teased me, your voice light and playful, your eyes dancing. My face went hot, ears buzzing, but your laugh hugged me tight, soft as the scarf around your neck. I locked that moment away, thinking it'd stay pure and sweet forever. Now, scratching it out here, that laugh stabs me—a jagged little knife twisting in my ribs.
I'm stuck here, staring at myself in that memory, some lovesick fool who didn't see the ground cracking under us. It's like I'm two people now—the me who knelt for you that night, and the me who's picking through the wreckage, pen in hand. Every piece I write down, every warm detail, turns sharp, slicing me open all over again.
That night, the park was ours, a quiet bubble in the city's roar. The moon dangled low, spilling silver over the stone footbridge, the stream gurgling soft underneath. You had on that red scarf I loved, the one that made your eyes pop like stars in the fading light. The air bit at my nose, crisp with wet earth and cedar, and the leaves went crunch-crunch under my knee when I dropped down, the ring shaking in my fingers. I can still feel its cold bite against my skin, the hope thumping wild in my chest as I looked up at you.
"Will you marry me?" I said, voice steady even though my heart was banging thump-thump-thump like a drum.
Your "yes" came out quiet, a wobbly little whisper on the breeze. "Yes," you said, eyes shining wet, lips curling into a smile that burned away the dark. I slid the ring on, and you laughed—bright and clear, a sound that wrapped the night in gold. We kissed, the moon watching, leaves spinning around us like they were celebrating. It felt like the start of everything, perfect and untouchable.
But now, spilling this onto the page, I see it different. I see me kneeling, see you pause—just a heartbeat, a flicker in your eyes I was too blind to catch. Was it doubt? A lie already curling up inside you? That "yes" I treasured feels like a promise you broke right there, before the ring even settled. The leaves crunching under me weren't applause—they were breaking, brittle and dying, like us.
My pen wobbles as I write, ink smearing where I press too hard, bleeding out like the hurt I can't stop. Every memory's a blade, jagged and cruel, cutting through the pretty picture I painted of us. Your scarf flapping in the wind, your breath warm against mine, the golden glow through the trees—I see it all, feel it all, and it stings. You grabbed my hand after, squeezed it like you meant it, and we walked back, arm in arm, like nothing could touch us. But something did. Someone did.
I stop, eyes drifting to the window. Leaves swirl outside, caught in the wind's rough dance. They're the same ones from that night, but they're not magic anymore. They're just falling, lost, like everything we had. I drag myself back to the page, forcing the words out, needing to face you here, needing to untangle this knot of pain since I saw you with him.
You said yes, Emiko, and I swallowed it whole. I built a life in my head—us old and gray, hands tangled under a pile of leaves, laughing at nothing. Forever was my gospel, my stupid little prayer. But forever's a lie we whisper to keep the dark away, and it shattered when you walked out. Rewriting that night now, I spot the cracks—your smile that didn't light up your eyes, the shake in your hand when you took the ring. I was down there, giving you everything, and you were holding something back, a secret I couldn't touch.
Memory's a butcher here, carving me up in this quiet room, leaving me with nothing but these shaky words and your shadow. Every line I write rips me open, every detail a punch to the gut. But there's a strange relief too, like I'm clawing my way out of the mess by facing it head-on. Writing to you, shouting into this empty space, I'm starting to see us clear—what we were, what's left of me now you're gone.
Dawn sneaks in, gray and shy, brushing the room with soft light. I drop the pen, my hand cramped and sore, the notebook fat with this first messy spill. It's not over—there's more to dig up, more hurt to wrestle onto these pages. But I've started. The writer in me's awake, crawling out of the ruin of us, ready to tell this story, no matter how bad it bleeds.
I shut the notebook, stand up, the cold air prickling my arms. Outside, the leaves keep tumbling, a slow song of endings and maybe, just maybe, new starts. I'll keep writing, through the pain, through the days, until I figure out who I am without you.
Kazuki leaned back, the chair groaning creeeak under him, the silence loud after the pen's scritch-scratch stopped. The room was dark, just a weak yellow glow from the lamp, shadows stretching long and thin across the walls. His bedroom felt like a cage now, the cedar smell choking him with memories of a kid who thought love was easy. His fingers hurt, stiff from clutching the pen too tight, but that ache was nothing next to the hollow in his chest. It was quieter now, though, not the screaming storm it'd been when he started. The words had siphoned it off, bit by bit.
He stared at the notebook, pages messy with his scribbles, ink still wet and shiny like tears that wouldn't dry. Shiku. Forty-nine days, forty-nine cuts to let it all out. It fit, like the number was made for this mess. He brushed his thumb over the title, smearing it a little, and let out a shaky breath.
That night in Hibiya Park stuck to him like damp clothes, cold and heavy. The crunch-crunch of leaves under his knee as he knelt, the ring biting into his palm, the moon peeking through the branches—it was all still there, too real. Your scarf, Emiko, flapping like a trapped bird, your eyes catching the light—I thought it was forever. Your "yes" was a lifeline, your laugh a fire to keep me warm. We kissed, and the leaves fell like they were happy for us.
But writing it down, I see the rot. Your smile didn't reach your eyes, your "yes" came after a hitch I ignored. I was too high on you to notice the leaves weren't dancing—they were dropping, dead and done. My pen shook, ink pooling like blood, and every word dragged the truth out: you were already slipping away.
He shoved the chair back, the screeech loud in the stillness, and stood, stretching until his spine popped crack-crack. Dawn light crept in, gray and gentle, softening the room's edges. He shuffled to the window, floorboards whining under his socks, and watched the leaves spin outside. They weren't promises anymore—just endings, piling up quiet and cold.
He turned back, eyes on the notebook, its dents and smudges like scars. A small, tired smile tugged at his mouth. This was just the beginning—more memories to face, more pain to spill. But he'd cracked the door open. The writer was alive, born from the mess of you, Emiko.
He snatched his jacket, the stiff fabric rustling, and pulled it on. The air outside would be sharp, waking him up, and he needed that—something real beyond these walls. He stuffed the notebook in his bag, its weight grounding him, and headed out.
The house was dead quiet, just the clock's tick-tock humming down the hall. He stopped at the door, hand on the knob, and sucked in a deep breath. The world was out there, messy and loud, but he wasn't scared. He had his story, his fight, and that was enough.
Stepping out, the wind yanked at him, leaves crunching crunch-crunch under his boots like a farewell. He glanced up, the sky shifting from gray to a faint blue, and felt something stir—hope, maybe, or just stubbornness. He'd keep writing, through the hurt, through the falling leaves, until he found himself again.