The navy notebook lay open on Kazuki's desk, its pages a jagged diary of love turned to ash. His childhood bedroom felt like a relic, the cedar smell sharp and bitter, dust settling like a shroud over memories of a kid who believed in happy endings. Outside, the October wind wailed, a low whooo-whooo that shook the window, but inside, time was stuck, trapped in the tremble of his hand as he gripped the pen. At the top, Shiku stared back—forty-nine, a number heavy as a stone, sinking with sorrow. Below it, October 22, 2023, the ink dark and final, marking the night he'd face you, Emiko, and the silence that grew between us, the words I never said.
You sat across from me, Emiko, at the low table in our apartment, a winter night in 2022, the air thick with the warm, salty smell of nabe bubbling on the stove. The pot hissed soft, sssss, steam curling up like ghosts, while the TV droned in the background, some variety show laughing ha-ha-ha like it knew something we didn't. The cherry tree outside our window was bare, its branches scratching the sky, skritch-skritch, like they were trying to claw their way free. You were quiet, your chopsticks poking at the cabbage, your eyes glued to the steam, not me.
I noticed, Emiko. I saw the way your shoulders slumped, the way your laugh had gone quiet, like a song faded out. Your phone sat face-down by your plate, buzzing bzzz-bzzz now and then, but you didn't flip it over, didn't share the texts like you used to. I thought it was just work—those long hours at the office, the nomikai you'd started going to more often, coming home with sake on your breath and a smile that didn't reach your eyes. I told myself you were tired, that you needed space, that love meant giving you room to breathe. So I stayed quiet, stirring the nabe, clink-clink as the ladle hit the pot, offering you more tofu like it could fix whatever was breaking.
But the silence grew, heavy as wet snow, piling up between us. Your smiles were thin, brittle, like the ice crusting the window. I'd catch you staring off, your fingers playing with that fox charm bracelet, jangle-jangle, like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. I didn't ask why, didn't say, "What's wrong?" or "Talk to me." I thought love was trust, not pushing, not prying. I thought I was being good, being safe. Now, writing this, I see it clear: my silence was a wall I built, brick by brick, shutting you out. Safety is a prison with nice curtains, I scribble in the margin, the words a whip cracking across my heart. You were slipping away, Emiko, and I let you, blaming myself for not being enough, then blaming myself for doubting you at all.
My pen shakes, ink blotching the page like tears I can't cry. I'm back there, at that table, watching you pick at your food, the silence louder than the nabe's sssss. I want to reach back, grab that version of myself, and yell, "Say something! Don't let her fade!" But the page is all I have, and it holds no mercy—just the truth of how I let silence become our language, letting the crack between us grow into a canyon.
Kazuki's pen scraped the paper, a harsh scritch-scritch that cut through the room's quiet. His chest ached, a heavy thump-thump like his heart was pounding on a locked door. The desk lamp buzzed, its dim light spilling over the notebook, the ink shining wet, like blood he couldn't stop. He saw you, Emiko, across that table—your hair tucked behind your ear, your chopsticks hovering, your eyes dodging mine. How'd I miss it? How'd I let that silence sit?
He leaned back, the chair creaking 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 chest. Outside, the wind howled louder, leaves tumbling with a faint rustle-rustle, whispering the questions he never asked. He dragged his eyes back to the page, the words staring up, raw and sharp.
That night, the apartment was warm, but the air felt cold between us. The nabe bubbled, glub-glub, filling the room with steam, but it couldn't touch the chill in your silence. You ate slow, picking at the tofu, the cabbage, your chopsticks clacking click-click like they were counting down to something. I kept stirring, kept offering you more, like I could fill the quiet with food. Your phone buzzed again, bzzz, and you glanced at it, quick, then pushed it away. I didn't ask who it was, didn't want to sound like I didn't trust you. I thought, She's just tired. She'll talk when she's ready.
But you didn't talk, Emiko. You cleared your plate, stood up, and said, "I'm gonna shower," your voice flat, like you were reading a script. The bathroom door clicked shut, the shower hissing sssss like it was washing away more than just the day. I sat there, alone with the nabe, the TV laughing ha-ha in the background, and that silence sank in, heavy as a stone. I should've followed you, knocked on the door, asked what was eating you. But I stayed put, stirring the pot, telling myself it was nothing, that we were fine.
Now I see it—the way your eyes wouldn't meet mine, the way your fingers fidgeted with that bracelet, jangle-jangle, like you were nervous. I see the texts you didn't show me, the nomikai that stretched too late, the smile that didn't light up like it used to. Was it him, Emiko? Was Riku already there, pulling you away with his easy laugh, his world so much brighter than our quiet nights? I let it happen, didn't I? I let the silence grow, let you drift, and someone else stepped into the space I left.
The pen shook harder, 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 guilt.
I loved you, Emiko, so much it filled every corner of me. I thought love was enough, that it could hold us together even when I didn't speak up. But love's not a glue—it's fragile, and I let it crack that night. I didn't ask about the texts, didn't chase you to the bathroom, didn't fight for us. I let the silence win, and someone else found you. 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 mess—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, across that table—your hair falling loose, your chopsticks still, your silence screaming what I wouldn't hear.
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 had lost their way. Somewhere out there, you're living, Emiko, maybe laughing, maybe free. And I'm here, sifting 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 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 let silence take 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.