The navy notebook lay open on Kazuki's desk, its pages a graveyard of ink and old promises. His childhood bedroom felt like a stranger now, the cedar smell bitter, the dust tickling his nose like memories he couldn't shake. Outside, the October wind howled low, a soft whooo rattling the window, but inside, everything was still, heavy with the weight of what he'd lost. His hand shook as he gripped the pen, the nib hovering over the blank page like it was scared to touch down. At the top, he'd scratched Shiku—forty-nine, a number that clung to him like damp clothes, heavy with grief. Below it, October 19, 2023, the ink dark and final, marking the night he'd dig into you, Emiko, and the birthday I forgot. The day I started breaking us.
You woke up that morning, Emiko, October 12, 2021, your twenty-seventh birthday, waiting for something—anything—from me. A word, a smile, a nod to show I remembered. The apartment smelled of coffee, sharp and warm, the tatami mats glowing soft under the morning sun. The cherry tree outside our window dropped leaves like quiet sighs, shhh-shhh, scattering across the courtyard. You were humming, tying your hair into that messy bun I loved, your fox charm bracelet going clink-clink against your wrist. I was at the table, hunched over translation drafts, my glasses fogged from my mug's steam, lost in a medical pamphlet about heart failure—ironic, now, when I think about it.
Your eyes flicked to me, searching, hoping for a spark I didn't give. You didn't say it, didn't push, but I see it now—your smile, tight and thin, waiting for me to notice. I was too deep in my papers, too buried in deadlines, to catch the weight in your quiet. I forgot, Emiko. I forgot your day, the one we'd marked for years with taiyaki from that street cart, walks through Hibiya Park, your teasing laugh when my gift-wrapping fell apart. That year, I let it slip, like sand running through my fingers, and it's one of the knives in my chest now, twisting slow.
You came home that night, your bag slung low, your smile brittle like dry leaves. We ate takeout yakisoba, the noodles slick and cold, the silence louder than the city's hum outside. You barely spoke, just pushed your food around, and I didn't ask why. I didn't see the chasm opening between us, didn't hear the creak of our foundation splitting. You went to bed early, your back to me, the space in our bed a cold, empty sea. I stayed up, scribbling notes, blind to what I'd done.
Now, sitting here, pen shaking, I watch that day like a ghost looking back. I was too comfortable, too sure our love could take the hit. Desire doesn't know vows, I scrawl in the margin, the words jagged, cutting me as I write them. You wanted to be seen, to be celebrated, but I was too busy to look up. I blamed you later, when you drifted to him, but it was me, wasn't it? My silence that day planted the first crack, a seed that grew into the ruin we became.
The ink smears under my thumb, my handwriting a mess, spilling like the guilt I can't hold in. I want to go back, shake myself awake, run out for those matcha macarons you loved, wrap a gift so bad you'd laugh till you cried. But all I've got is this page, and it doesn't forgive—it just holds the truth, sharp and heavy, of how I let you down.
Kazuki's pen scratched hard, a frantic scritch-scritch breaking the room's quiet. His chest ached, a dull thump-thump like his heart was knocking to get out, mad at him for missing it all. The desk lamp buzzed soft, throwing a weak yellow glow over the notebook, the ink shining wet, like tears he couldn't cry. He saw you, Emiko, in that moment—your bun slipping loose, your bracelet catching the light, your eyes waiting for something I didn't give. How'd I miss it? How'd I let that day slide?
He leaned back, the chair groaning creeeak under him, and rubbed his eyes, glasses fogging again. The room felt small, the walls pressing in, cedar and dust choking the air. Outside, the wind kicked up, leaves tumbling with a faint rustle-rustle, like they were whispering his mistakes. He turned back to the page, the words staring up, raw and ugly but true.
That night, we sat across from each other, chopsticks clacking click-click against the takeout containers. You were quiet, too quiet, and I thought you were just tired. I didn't ask, didn't push, just kept eating, my head still in my work. Your fork scraped the bowl, a sharp screee that set my teeth on edge, but I didn't look up. I see it now—the way your shoulders slumped, the way your eyes didn't meet mine. You were waiting for me to remember, to say something, anything, but I didn't. I let the day die, Emiko, and part of us died with it.
I keep replaying it, like a song stuck in my head. You in your work blouse, sleeves rolled up, that bracelet jangling as you moved. The cherry tree outside, dropping leaves like it knew what I didn't. The way you went to bed, curling away from me, your breathing soft but heavy, like you were carrying something I couldn't see. I should've gotten up, followed you, asked what was wrong. I should've remembered—your birthday, your light, you.
The pen shook harder now, ink splattering like raindrops. Kazuki's breath hitched, his throat tight, the tears he'd held back burning hot. They didn't fall, just sat there, heavy behind his eyes, making the words blur. He wrote faster, the scratch-scratch loud, like he was racing to get it all out before it swallowed him.
I loved you, Emiko, so much it hurt. I thought love was enough, that it could carry us through my screw-ups. But love's not a shield—it's fragile, and I broke it that day, didn't I? I didn't see you, didn't celebrate you, and you started slipping away. I see it now—the crack I made, the space where someone else walked in. I want to scream at that guy, the one who forgot, who let you down. But he's me, and I'm stuck with him, writing this to figure out why.
He stopped, hand cramped, chest heaving. The notebook was a mess—ink smudged, pages wrinkled—but it was alive, pulsing with his truth. He leaned forward, forehead on his arms, the wood cool against his skin. The room was dead quiet, just the wind's whooo and the clock's tick-tock down the hall. He saw you again, Emiko, in that morning light, your bun tilting, your smile waiting. And he saw himself, head down, blind.
Kazuki stood, legs shaky, and shuffled to the window. The glass was cold, fogging under his breath as he stared out. The city sprawled below, lights blinking like fireflies lost in the dark. Somewhere out there, you're living, Emiko, maybe laughing, maybe forgetting me. And I'm here, picking up the pieces of us, trying to make sense of it with a pen.
He turned back to the desk, the notebook waiting like a friend who'd seen him at his worst. His fingers brushed the cover, feeling the dents where he'd pressed too hard. Shiku, he thought—forty-nine days of grief, but maybe forty-nine chances to rebuild. A small, wobbly smile crept up, the first real one in days. It wasn't much, but it was something.
The wind outside picked up, rattling the window with a clatter-clatter, and he felt it—a spark, tiny but stubborn, telling him to keep going. He sat back down, grabbed the pen, and let it hover again. There was more to say, more to face—more you, more me, more us. He wrote one last line, slow and careful:
I'm sorry, Emiko. I'm sorry I forgot you.
The words sat there, heavy but true, and he closed the notebook with a soft thump. Dawn was coming, gray light creeping in, softening the room's edges. He stood again, jacket in hand, the fabric rustling as he pulled it on. The house was still, but he wasn't stuck anymore. He'd step out, into the cold, into the city's hum, carrying the notebook and its weight.
The door clicked shut behind him, a quiet snap in the dark. The wind hit his face, sharp and waking, leaves crunching crunch-crunch under his shoes. He didn't know where he was going—just forward, one messy step at a time, with Shiku in his bag and a story still to tell.