They say your most important memories are stored like museum artifacts. Mine starts, inconveniently, with sand. Warm, fine-grained, smelling of salt and something sharp, like crushed pine needles. I was three, and my hand was glued to his—Jun Kuroda's—in a grip that felt less like affection and more like an inevitable destiny.
"Don't let go, Yui-chan. The sea will eat you."
Even at three, Jun sounded exhausted, like he was born knowing the average lifespan of a star. He was the local anomaly in this sleepy coastal town near Atami, the kid from the Children's Home who already carried the weight of the world, or at least the weight of an early, quiet tragedy. He'd lost his parents before he learned to tie his shoes, and for years, his only company was the structured silence of that facility.
But when he looked at me, those deep brown eyes weren't just looking; they were seeing. And in that moment, they'd catch a tiny flicker of light, the summer sun reflecting off the dull ocean. That flicker, I knew even then, was just for me.
When he finally moved into his family's old, sea-battered house at eleven, nothing about our relationship changed. He still received only the most formal, government-appointed visits. I was his constant. His anchor. Which, if you ask me, is a much heavier burden than "girlfriend."
The first time we made the promise, we were six. It was less a romantic vow and more a self-evident truth, always whispered on that same stretch of beach.
"We're going to live right here, Jun. I'll make you food every day!"
He nodded, skinny and serious, his kindergarten uniform too big for his frame. "If you promise not to cry, Yui. And if you are there for me, I'll always come home."
I dedicated my entire adolescence to fulfilling that impossible, self-sacrificing condition.
When we were twelve, perched on the rusty railing of the coastal overlook, watching the fishing boats come in, he articulated the contract again. "You know, Yui, when we get married, we'll get a house that lets us watch the sea from the window. Just like we're doing now."
His words weren't filled with the dramatic intensity of a boy's first crush; they carried the quiet, heavy certainty of destiny. It wasn't if we got married; it was simply when. Our love didn't feel like a story from a manga; it felt like the absolute, inevitable turning of the seasons. It was simply the foundation of our small world.
The last time I heard that calm, earnest voice was on his fifteenth birthday. I'd baked him a lopsided cake, all synthetic cream and nervous energy. In the too-silent, sparsely furnished house, he looked at the flickering candle, then across the table at me, a faint, rare smile gracing his lips. His wish was, as always, quiet and shared.
"Happy birthday, Jun," I whispered, the familiar, intense joy of being completely, utterly loved making my heart ache.
If I had calculated the cumulative minutes I spent on his porch, waiting for the seven-thirty ritual, it would look ridiculous. Nine years. 3,285 mornings. It wasn't a chore; it was like the earth orbiting the sun—necessary and non-negotiable. You don't get sick of breathing. And the physical proof of my singular importance? The copper-colored spare key I wore on a chain beneath my uniform shirt. It wasn't just metal; it was my special status badge, free access to the most private corners of his too-quiet world.
But today, the door remained shut.
The rhythmic tap of my school shoes on the cool, damp concrete was impatient, then anxious, then a frantic drum solo. Jun was never late. He was the definition of punctual. When the cold metal of the doorknob refused to turn, the unease wasn't a prickle on my neck; it was a physical weight, settling in my chest like a forgotten, waterlogged book.
I used the key.
The air inside was cold, stale. Everything was in place: the school bag, the worn-out hoodie, the half-finished manga. Nothing had been taken. Except the only thing that mattered.
The cold, hard stone of conviction didn't settle in my stomach—it solidified in my mind. I didn't wait. Rationality is for people who haven't spent their whole lives tied to one person. My instinct screamed, and I listened. I fumbled for my phone, calling the police first, my voice a tight wire of forced calm.
I remained on the porch, clutching the key, until the distant, familiar siren signaled the police car's arrival.
The young officer—nervous, clearly out of his depth in a town where the biggest crime is usually littering—asked the required question. "Hanamura-san, is it possible a boy with his background felt the need to run away? To start fresh?"
The question felt like an insult to the quiet theology we had built our lives upon. I met his eye, and the certainty must have been terrifying, because his pen clattered to the concrete.
"That's impossible," I said. No tears. No hesitation. Just the quiet, unshakeable truth. "Jun Kuroda is many things—reserved, maybe too serious—but he is not a liar. He does not break contracts. We had a destination, Officer. He wouldn't just abandon destiny."
Hope, it turns out, has a very short shelf life. Ours expired exactly fourteen days later, on a Tuesday morning. The entire coastline, which had always felt like a comforting embrace, was now a vast, predatory mouth.
Old Mr. Sato, the fisherman who lived closest to the lighthouse, found it: a single, mud-caked shoe. Jun's. The one he wore every single day.
The sound of the world breaking isn't a crash or a cry; it's the absolute, terrifying silence that replaces the noise. My destiny—the quiet, inevitable turning of the seasons—was abruptly revoked. The sun Jun had carried, the tiny flicker of summer light that only I could ignite, didn't vanish in a flash. It just... dimmed. Faded away, leaving behind the hollow, suffocating air of a long, permanent dusk.
And that, I suppose, is when my own strange story really began.