The navy notebook lay open on Kazuki's desk, its pages a jagged tapestry of love and loss, each word a stitch in a wound that wouldn't heal. His childhood bedroom felt like a stranger's now, the cedar smell sharp, the dust settling like a thin veil of forgotten dreams. Outside, the October wind whined, a low whooo-whooo that rattled the loose windowpane, but inside, time was frozen, caught in the tremble of his hand as he gripped the pen. At the top, Shiku glared back—forty-nine, a number heavy as wet earth, sinking with grief. Below it, October 21, 2023, the ink stark, pinning down the night he'd face you, Emiko, and the gym routine I cheered for but should've questioned.
You announced it one morning, Emiko, summer 2022, your voice cutting through the hum of our tiny kitchen. "I'm joining a gym," you said, stirring miso soup, the steam curling around your face like a soft cloud. The spoon clinked tink-tink against the bowl, and I looked up from my toast, crumbs sticking to my fingers, surprised but happy. You'd always been alive, moving—our walks through Hibiya Park, your twirls to music in our living room—but this was new, a fire I hadn't seen before. Spin classes, yoga, weights—you listed them like a kid planning a big adventure. I grinned, said, "That's great," and meant it, picturing you stronger, brighter, our life a little shinier because of it.
You'd come home glowing, gym bag slung over your shoulder, hair damp and messy from a shower, your fox charm bracelet jangling clink-clink as you tossed your keys on the counter. You'd talk fast—about trainers with loud voices, spin bikes that squeaked, the rush of feeling your heart race. I'd listen, nodding, proud of you, my chest warm with it. I saw it as you taking care of yourself, finding a spark I thought we'd share. But then there were nights you stayed late, saying it was an extra class, your phone buzzing bzzz-bzzz with texts you'd glance at and tuck away. I didn't ask, didn't want to be the guy who hovered, who doubted. I trusted you, Emiko, like I trusted the sun to rise.
Now, scratching this out, I see it clear—the gym wasn't just exercise. It was a door you walked through, a place where you were free, where you met him, didn't you? Riku Sano, with his shiny watch and his laugh that wasn't mine. I can still see you, coming home with that new energy, your eyes too bright, your laugh too sharp, like you were chasing something I couldn't touch. I blamed myself for not joining you, for letting my translation work eat my days, for being too cozy in our quiet life. Then I blamed myself for blaming you, for thinking you'd ever stray. Safety is a prison with nice curtains, I scribble in the margin, the words bitter, slicing me open. I built you a safe life, Emiko, but it caged you, didn't it? And I was too blind to see the bars.
My hand shakes, the ink smearing, sprawling across the page like a wound that won't close. I'm back in those nights, watching you breeze in, your gym bag thumping thud on the floor, your smile a mask I didn't question. The truth sits heavy now, a stone in my gut, and I'm writing to find where it started, where I lost you.
Kazuki's pen scraped the page, a harsh scritch-scritch that filled the quiet room. His chest throbbed, a steady thump-thump-thump like his heart was kicking against a wall. The desk lamp hummed, its weak light pooling over the notebook, the ink glistening like tears he couldn't cry. He saw you, Emiko, in those summer evenings—your hair sticking to your neck, your bracelet catching the kitchen light, your voice too quick, too bright. How'd I miss it? How'd I let those late nights slide?
He leaned back, the chair groaning creeeak under him, and rubbed his eyes, glasses fogging from the heat of his breath. The room felt small, the cedar smell choking, the dust settling like a weight on his shoulders. Outside, the wind kicked up, leaves tumbling with a soft rustle-rustle, whispering secrets he'd ignored. He dragged his eyes back to the page, the words staring up, raw and jagged.
Those nights, you'd come home late, the apartment dark except for the TV's flicker, some game show laughing ha-ha-ha like it was mocking me. I'd be on the couch, papers scattered, trying to translate medical terms while you dropped your bag with a heavy thud. You'd talk about spin class, how the bikes squealed screee or how the yoga teacher's voice was too loud, and I'd nod, smiling, thinking it was just you being you—alive, vibrant, unstoppable. But your phone would buzz bzzz-bzzz, and you'd tilt it away, just a little, just enough to make my stomach twist.
I didn't ask. I told myself it was nothing—group chats with gym friends, class reminders, whatever. I didn't want to be that guy, the one who checks your phone, who questions your glow. I loved you, Emiko, and love meant trust, right? But now I see it—the way your laugh was sharper, like a knife cutting through the air, the way your eyes looked past me, chasing something else. Was it him? Was Riku there, in the gym, with his easy grin, his world so much bigger than our quiet nights?
I keep replaying it, like a song stuck on repeat. You, peeling off your jacket, that citrus smell from months ago still lingering, mixing with sweat and something new. The way you'd flop next to me, close but not touching, your stories spilling out but leaving gaps I didn't fill. I should've asked, should've said, "Who's texting you?" or "Why so late?" But I didn't. I let it slide, let you slip, and now I'm here, picking up the pieces.
The pen shook harder, ink splattering like raindrops on the page. Kazuki's breath caught, his throat tight, tears burning behind his eyes but staying put, heavy and hot. He wrote faster, the scratch-scratch loud, like he was racing to outrun the guilt.
I loved you, Emiko, so much it filled me up. I thought we were solid, that your new spark was just you growing, not leaving. But I was wrong. I was too buried in my work, too happy with our routine, to see you were running toward something else. I didn't join you at the gym, didn't ask about the texts, didn't fight for us. I let you drift, and someone else caught you. I hate that guy—me, the one who sat there, quiet and blind, letting you go.
He stopped, hand cramped, chest heaving. The notebook was a mess—ink smeared, pages creased—but it was real, 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 summer light, your bracelet jangling, your smile hiding something I couldn't name.
Kazuki stood, legs wobbly, and shuffled to the window. The glass was cold, fogging under his breath as he stared out. The city sprawled below, lights blinking like stars that didn't know where to land. Somewhere out there, you're living, Emiko, maybe sweating in a gym, maybe laughing with him. And I'm here, scraping 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 him break. His fingers brushed the cover, feeling the dents where he'd pressed too hard. Shiku, he thought—forty-nine days of mourning, but maybe forty-nine chances to rebuild. A small, shaky smile crept up, the first real one in days. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
The wind outside howled louder, rattling the window with a clatter-clatter, and he felt it—a spark, faint but fierce, pushing 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 follow 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.