The navy notebook lay open on Kazuki's desk, its pages a jagged map of a heart torn open. His childhood bedroom felt like a museum of a life he'd outgrown, the cedar smell sharp and heavy, dust tickling his nose like ghosts of old dreams. Outside, the October wind moaned low, a soft whooo-whooo that rattled the windowpane, but inside, time was stuck, pinned by the shake in his hand as he gripped the pen. At the top of the page, Shiku stared back—forty-nine, a number that clung like damp fog, heavy with loss. Below it, October 20, 2023, the ink dark and final, marking the night he'd dig into you, Emiko, and that spring evening when a stranger's scent crept into our home.
You came home late, Emiko, April 2022, the air soft and sweet with cherry blossom dust, the city humming hmmmm beyond our window. I was sprawled on the couch, a half-read novel—some Murakami paperback—flopped across my lap, the TV flickering with a tired rerun of O-neeto, its laugh track buzzing like a fly I couldn't swat. You slipped in, shoes dropping with a quick thud-thud in the genkan, your bag hitting the floor with a heavy plop. I looked up, expecting your usual kiss, that quick brush of your lips that always felt like home. But you moved fast, almost sneaky, your hair falling over your face like a curtain shutting me out. "Long day," you mumbled, breezing past, your scarf trailing behind like a flag I couldn't read.
Then it hit me—a smell, sharp and wrong, nothing like the white lily perfume you'd worn since that first day under the sakura. This was citrus, loud and bright, with a musky bite that stuck to your scarf, your jacket, your skin. It punched through the air, a stranger crashing our quiet night. I froze, the book slipping, my heart tripping thump-thump like it knew something I didn't. "New perfume?" I asked, keeping my voice light, trying not to sound like I was accusing you of anything. You laughed, too quick, too bright, like a lightbulb about to burn out. "Just something I tried at the store," you said, eyes dodging mine, and then you were gone, the bathroom door clicking shut, the shower hissing sssss seconds later.
I sat there, that citrus smell lingering, a guest who wouldn't leave. It wasn't just perfume—it was heavy, alive, like it had a story I wasn't allowed to hear. I told myself it was nothing—a sample spritzed at a counter, a colleague's cloud you'd walked through, a whim. But doubt crept in, slow and cold, like water seeping through a crack. I didn't ask again, didn't want to break the trust I'd built my whole world on. Now, writing this, I see what I wouldn't then: that scent was his, wasn't it? Riku Sano's, or someone's, a mark of the space opening between us. I blamed myself for not noticing sooner, then blamed myself for noticing at all, for letting that smell haunt me like a ghost.
Desire doesn't know vows, I scribble in the margin, the words a knife I keep twisting. Your heart was pulling somewhere else, and I was too steady, too safe, to see it. The ink shakes on the page, my handwriting a mess, like I'm trying to claw the truth out of myself.
Kazuki's pen scratched hard, a frantic scritch-scritch that broke the room's quiet. His chest ached, a heavy thump-thump-thump like his heart was banging on a locked door. The desk lamp buzzed soft, its yellow glow spilling over the notebook, the ink shining wet, like blood he couldn't stop. He saw you, Emiko, in that moment—your hair falling loose, your scarf flapping, your quick steps to the bathroom like you were running from something. How'd I miss it? How'd I let that smell slide?
He leaned back, the chair creaking creeeak under him, and rubbed his eyes, glasses fogging from the heat of his skin. The room felt tight, the cedar smell choking, the dust settling like ash. Outside, the wind kicked up, leaves tumbling with a faint rustle-rustle, whispering secrets he hadn't wanted to hear. He turned back to the page, the words staring up, raw and sharp.
That night, I stayed on the couch, the TV's hum a dull drone, the novel forgotten in my lap. The citrus smell hung in the air, sharp and wrong, like a note played off-key. I kept replaying your laugh—too bright, too forced, like you were covering something. Your eyes wouldn't meet mine, darting to the floor, the wall, anywhere but me. The shower ran long, sssss like it was trying to wash away more than just the day. I sat there, telling myself it was fine, that I was being stupid, that love meant trust, not questions.
But it wasn't fine. That smell wasn't yours—it was someone else's, a shadow slipping into our home. I should've asked, should've pushed, but I was scared. Scared to crack the picture I'd painted of us—happy, solid, forever. I see it now, Emiko—the way you moved, quick and guarded, like you were carrying a secret I wasn't allowed to touch. I see the crack I ignored, the one that grew until it swallowed us.
The pen shook, ink splattering like rain on the page. Kazuki's breath caught, his throat tight, tears burning behind his eyes but refusing to fall. They sat there, heavy, blurring the words. He wrote faster, the scratch-scratch loud, like he was racing to outrun the hurt.
I loved you, Emiko, with everything I had. I thought that was enough, that love could hold us together even when I missed the signs. But love's not a wall—it's thin, breakable, and I let it crack that night. I didn't ask about the perfume, didn't call you back to the couch, didn't fight for us. I let you slip away, and someone else stepped in. I hate that guy—me, the one who sat there, quiet and dumb, letting you go.
He stopped, hand cramped, chest heaving. The notebook was a wreck—ink smeared, 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 silent, just the wind's whooo and the clock's tick-tock down the hall. He saw you again, Emiko, in that spring light, your scarf trailing, your laugh hiding something I couldn't name.
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 broken promises. Somewhere out there, you're living, Emiko, maybe wearing that citrus scent, maybe laughing with him. And I'm here, picking through our ruins, trying to make sense of it with this pen.
He turned back to the desk, the notebook waiting like a friend who'd seen 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 find myself. A small, tired smile crept up, the first real one in days. It wasn't much, but it was something.
The wind outside howled louder, rattling the window with a clatter-clatter, and he felt it—a spark, faint but stubborn, urging 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 heavy:
I'm sorry, Emiko. I'm sorry I didn't see you.
The words sat there, true and raw, and he closed the notebook with a soft thump. Dawn was creeping in, gray light 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.