The navy notebook sat open on Kazuki's desk, its pages a tangle of ink and half-remembered moments. His childhood bedroom felt like a ghost town now—familiar but empty, the air thick with the smell of cedar and dust. Outside, the October wind sighed through the trees, a soft shhh-shhh that carried the chill of the season. Inside, though, time didn't move. It stuck like glue in the shake of his hand, the pen trembling as he pressed it to the paper. At the top, he'd scrawled Shiku—his novel, his unraveling—and beneath it, the date: October 18, 2023. A quiet little flag marking the night he'd dive back into you, Emiko, and that karaoke night that used to feel like love wrapped in a melody. Now, it was a cracked mirror, reflecting something jagged, and he took a deep breath to face it.
You were up there at the mic, Emiko, in that tiny karaoke bar, your voice slicing through the shadows as you sang "First Love" by Utada. The place was a scrappy little spot, hidden in some Shibuya alley where the neon lights couldn't quite reach. The walls were plastered with old posters, peeling at the corners, and the ceiling dripped with pink and blue glow, washing over your face like a watercolor dream. The air hung heavy—sticky with sake, sour with smoke—and the city's buzz slipped in through the cracked window, a low hmmm that never stopped.
Your hands clutched the mic, fingers tight, and your voice came out rough, brave, stumbling over the notes. You butchered "love," your pitch wobbling high and sharp, but God, it was perfect because it was yours. I was slumped in the corner booth, the vinyl clinging to my sweaty palms, watching you with a heart that felt too big for my ribs. You flicked your eyes to me mid-line, and they caught the light—a quick, bright flash I swore was love. Back then, I believed it. Now, I wonder. (Was it a chord we hit together, or the first string snapping loose?)
Kazuki's pen scratched the page, loud and messy in the quiet room. His hand jittered, ink smearing where he pressed too hard, like he could force the memory to stay put. He could still hear it all—the clink-clink of glasses bumping, the warm rumble of laughter from the next booth, the way your voice broke and the room chuckled with you, soft and fond, like they were in on it too. I'd laughed along, but something had knotted in my throat, a little ache I didn't name.
The song faded out, and you beamed, cheeks pink, panting a little as the screen blinked a terrible score. You didn't care one bit, and neither did I. I got up, slid beside you, and we picked our duet—the one we'd sung a hundred times, the one that felt like it belonged to us. Our voices mixed, or at least I thought they did, spilling into the room like a shared heartbeat. But now, scratching this out, I hear the off-beats—your tone slipping away from mine, a quiet pull I didn't notice then. The room clapped, thin and scattered, and you grabbed my hand, your smile fast and dazzling.
Later, we spilled out into the night, your arm looped through mine, your head resting on my shoulder as we wove through Shibuya's electric mess. You hummed "First Love" under your breath, the tune barely there against the city's growl, and I grinned like an idiot, thinking it was ours—a song about starting something. But those lyrics keep circling back now: "You'll always be inside my heart, but this is where our story ends." Were you already saying goodbye, Emiko? Did I miss the line that broke us?
His handwriting turned wild, letters sprawling, ink bleeding like it was crying for him. Kazuki's breath snagged, his chest squeezing tight with the sting of looking back. That night had felt so real—your warmth against me, the neon catching in your hair, your laugh bouncing as we wandered home. But now he saw it: the way your eyes darted, restless, chasing something beyond me.
He scratched a note in the margin—(Was it a chord we hit together, or the first string snapping loose?)—the words rough, tearing the page a little. His pen shook, hovering, as the truth sank its teeth in: even in that bright, buzzing moment, the end was already humming underneath.
Kazuki dropped the pen, his hand cramped, his pulse hammering in his ears. The notebook lay there, ink shining wet under the dim desk lamp. He stared at his messy lines, and the tears he'd been holding back burned hot behind his eyes. He'd caught the memory, pinned it down in all its chipped, aching pieces, but it left him empty, like a shell washed up on the shore.
He stood, legs wobbly, and shuffled to the window. The glass was cold against his forehead as he looked out at the city—lights flickering like stars that forgot where they belonged. Somewhere out there, Emiko, you might be singing again, your voice light and untied, while I'm stuck here, picking through the wreckage of us.
The room was quiet except for the tick-tock of the clock, each click a nail in his chest. His breath fogged the window, smearing the city into a blur of color. He shut his eyes, and that night flooded back, sharp and merciless.
You'd worn that black dress with the tiny white flowers, your hair falling loose, brushing your shoulders like a secret. The karaoke bar was our bubble, that booth a hideout where the world couldn't touch us. You sang with your eyes closed, swaying a little, and I thought, This is it. This is forever. Your voice cracked on the chorus, and you laughed, head tipping back, and I laughed too, my heart swelling so big it hurt.
But now, I see it different. I see how you glanced at the door—just once, quick—like you were mapping a way out. I see the flicker in your smile, how it didn't settle. I hear those lyrics again—"this is where our story ends"—and it hits like a brick. Were you already gone, Emiko? Was that night just a ghost I held too tight?
Kazuki's fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. The ache in his chest throbbed, a dull thump-thump matching the song still looping in his skull. He turned back to the desk, the notebook waiting there like a mirror he couldn't escape.
He sat, grabbed the pen, and let it all pour out, the words rushing like a river breaking free.
I loved you, Emiko. I loved you with every piece of me, and I thought you loved me too. But maybe love's not enough. Maybe we were singing different tunes all along, and I was too lost in mine to hear yours. That night—the lights, the laughter, your voice—I thought we were locked in step. But now I see the stumbles, your eyes drifting, your melody pulling away. I see the split, and it tears me open every time.
The pen scraped fast, a frantic scritch-scritch that filled the room. His eyes blurred, tears spilling finally, quiet and hot. He didn't stop them; they fell, splashing the page, smudging the ink into a mess.
I miss you, Emiko. I miss you so bad it hurts to breathe. But I don't know if I miss the real you or the you I dreamed up. Maybe they're tangled together. Maybe they're not. All I know is that night, with your voice in my ears and your hand in mine, I was happy—really happy. And now, writing this, I'm chasing that feeling, even if it's just a flicker on paper.
He stopped, breath shaky, chest heaving. The notebook was a disaster—ink smeared, pages damp—but it was true. It was him. He closed it slow, like shutting a window on yesterday, and stood up. The room felt tight, the air softer somehow. Outside, the wind had hushed, leaving the night still.
Kazuki stepped to the door, slow but sure. He didn't know what was next, but he couldn't stay here, drowning in what was. The hurt stayed with him, a shadow that wouldn't leave, but it was lighter now, smoothed out by spilling it onto the page.
He looked back at the desk, the notebook sitting there, quiet and heavy. Shiku, he thought—forty-nine days of mourning, maybe forty-nine days to mend.
He took a long breath, flicked off the light, and stepped into the hall. The dark swallowed the room behind him. The city stretched out ahead, loud and careless, and somewhere in its mess, he'd figure out how to keep going.