The navy notebook lay open on Kazuki's desk, its pages a jagged scrapbook of love and loss, each word a cut he couldn't stop picking at. His childhood bedroom felt like a tomb now, the cedar smell sharp and heavy, dust settling like a thin fog over memories of a kid who thought love was forever. Outside, the October wind howled, a low whooo-whooo that rattled the window, but inside, time was trapped, caught in the shake of his hand as he gripped the pen. At the top, Shiku glared back—forty-nine, a number heavy as wet earth, sinking with regret. Below it, October 23, 2023, the ink stark and final, marking the night he'd face you, Emiko, and the cycle of blame that tore us apart.
You stood in the foyer, Emiko, a spring morning in 2023, your gym bag slung over your shoulder, hair pulled back tight, a new spark in your step. The air was soft, laced with cherry blossom pollen, the city humming hmmmm beyond our window. I was at the table, hunched over another translation—some dry pamphlet on heart disease—my glasses fogged from coffee steam, the mug clinking tink-tink as I stirred. You paused, one hand on the door, and looked at me, your eyes sharp, searching. "You're always working, Kazuki," you said, your voice quiet, no bite, just a truth that landed like a stone.
It stung, Emiko, that little sentence, like a splinter I couldn't dig out. I laughed it off, said, "Someone's gotta keep us in matcha macarons," trying to make it light, to keep the air easy. But your smile was thin, a thread stretched too tight, and you turned away, the door clicking snap behind you. I sat there, the coffee cooling, the pamphlet blurring, and felt it—guilt, heavy and cold, settling in my gut. I blamed myself for being too buried, for letting my work swallow me whole. I thought I was building a life for us, Emiko, but I was building a cage, wasn't I? Safety is a prison with nice curtains, I scribble in the margin, the words a mirror to my failure, cutting me deep.
I should've seen it—your restlessness, the way your eyes searched for something more than our quiet nights, our same-old routines. But then I turned it on you, blamed you for changing, for pulling away, for not spelling out what you needed. The guilt twisted, a knot I couldn't untie, and I carried it, letting it fester like a bruise. Now, writing this, I see the cycle—blaming myself for not being enough, blaming you for wanting more. The foyer mirror showed a stranger that morning, but it was me, wasn't it? A man too comfortable, too scared to ask why you'd changed.
My pen shakes, ink blotching the page like tears I can't cry. I'm back in that moment, watching you leave, the thud-thud of your gym bag hitting your shoulder, the silence you left behind louder than the city outside. I want to reach back, grab that version of myself, and yell, "Stop her! Ask her what's wrong!" But the page is all I have, and it holds no forgiveness—just the truth of how I let blame break us.
Kazuki's pen scraped the paper, a harsh scritch-scritch that sliced through the room's quiet. His chest ached, a heavy thump-thump-thump like his heart was pounding on a locked door. The desk lamp buzzed, its weak light pooling over the notebook, the ink glistening wet, like blood he couldn't stop. He saw you, Emiko, in that foyer—your hair pulled tight, your gym bag swinging, your words hanging in the air like a warning I ignored. How'd I miss it? How'd I let that moment pass?
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 lungs. Outside, the wind kicked up, leaves tumbling with a soft rustle-rustle, whispering the questions he never asked. He dragged his eyes back to the page, the words staring up, raw and jagged.
That morning, the apartment was quiet, just the drip-drip of the coffee maker and the faint hum of the city outside. You stood there, Emiko, one hand on the door, your words—"You're always working"—cutting deeper than I let on. I brushed it off, kept my head down, but it stuck, like a pebble in my shoe I couldn't shake out. I thought you were just tired, maybe annoyed, that you'd come back later and we'd laugh it off over dinner. But you didn't. You came home late that night, your gym bag thumping thud on the floor, your eyes bright but distant, like you were somewhere I couldn't follow.
I blamed myself, Emiko. I thought if I worked less, paid more attention, you'd be the you I loved again—the one who laughed under the sakura, who slipped notes under my teacup. I stayed up that night, staring at the ceiling, the fan clicking whir-whir, trying to figure out how to be better. But then I blamed you, too—for not talking, for shutting me out, for changing into someone I didn't know. I'd see you come home, your hair damp from a shower, your phone buzzing bzzz-bzzz with texts you didn't share, and I'd wonder—who's making you smile like that? Who's pulling you away?
I didn't ask, though. I didn't want to be the guy who doubts, who pushes. I thought love meant trusting you, letting you have your space. But space became distance, and distance became him—Riku, with his flashy watch, his world so much bigger than our quiet life. I see it now, Emiko—the way your steps got quicker, your laughs sharper, like you were running toward something I couldn't see. I let it happen, let the silence grow, let the blame bounce back and forth until it broke us.
The pen shook harder, ink splattering like rain 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 love was enough, that it could hold us together even when I didn't speak up. But love's not a rope—it's fragile, and I let it fray. I didn't ask why you were different, didn't chase you when you walked out, didn't fight for us. I let the blame win, let it twist me into someone who doubted you, then doubted myself. I hate that guy—me, the one who sat there, quiet and blind, letting you slip away.
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, in that foyer—your gym bag swinging, your words cutting, your silence screaming what I wouldn't hear.
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 stars that didn't know their place. 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 blame break us.
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.