Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The density of the air nearly caused his lungs to collapse severely. Oxygen barely managed to do its job as it drifted through his bloodstream, bringing with it a faint dizziness and discomfort that settled in his restless head.

It still wasn’t dawn. Too late—or too early—for the sun to leave its chambers and paint the streets with its undeniable pride. The sky remained dark above his nose, a deep stellar mantle as sinister as a bottomless abyss. A gust of wind shook his long black hair, sending a fleeting shiver down his spine in the same way daggers cruelly pierce skin.

He hadn’t brought much with him. A bag slung over his shoulder, empty pockets aside from his cellphone and a few pencils he had grabbed in a moment of desperation. The apartment he had chosen to flee from was left in absolute disarray; an unmade bed, clothes scattered everywhere, furniture out of place, notebooks and rebellious papers that had managed to spread even onto the cold bathroom tiles. But at this moment, it hardly seemed to worry him—he knew he was escaping, and leaving a few details behind was nothing more than part of the process.

Shinjuku Station was as empty as he felt. Only a handful of people had risen at this hour to catch the train—aside from him—and committing their faces to memory felt like a sin against the hollow he carried in his chest. Judging by the suitcases and the few children waiting, it was clear most of them were tourists eager for a sense of freedom and exploratory adventure.

He, on the other hand, was just a student who needed to get the hell out of this damned city as soon as possible.

The train finally announced its arrival, stopping right in front of him with a roar that shook the entire platform. Before the doors opened, he ran a hand over his face with a trace of anger and was the first to step inside. He walked down the aisle of a car whose number he didn’t bother to check and sat in the last seats, right next to the window, placing his bag on the seat beside him. Given the hour, it was unlikely anyone would grant him the horrible inconvenience of ruining his silence by sitting next to him—but he preferred to avoid it anyway.

He vaguely knew the trip would take approximately two hours and thirty minutes. The train would pass through five stations before reaching the place he had chosen at random, without much thought. The truth was that this journey was merely the result of his impulsivity, brought on by the torturous years he had been forced to endure.

Normally, he was not an impulsive person. But he had finally understood that he couldn’t survive another day like this.

He rolled up the sleeve of his black waterproof jacket—it had been raining for days with no sign of stopping soon—and gave a vague glance to the old watch resting on his wrist. If there were no accidents or interruptions once the train departed, with luck he would arrive in Matsumoto at six in the morning.

He let his head fall back against the seat, releasing a tired sigh. He thought about how the ticket would have been cheaper if he had taken a regular bus, but the mere idea of passing through more than ten different stops made his stomach churn. At least the train was faster and didn’t stop so often—and in any case, this would be the only indulgence he would allow himself given his tight budget.

Suddenly, he felt like an idiot.

He shook his head, immediately rejecting the thought. Don’t think like that, the trip hasn’t even started yet. Maybe changing scenery and traveling to a different city wasn’t the best idea for a university student living independently—his already meager bank account would suffer even more—but he knew this was what he needed.

To escape, and forget absolutely everything. His problems would dissolve, his stress would drop considerably, and he wouldn’t have to think about exams or assignments for months. This was, without a doubt, the best plan he had had in a long time.

And yet, he still couldn’t understand why tears began to trail down his cheeks, staining his face worn down by a fatigue that seemed permanent.

It’s happiness, he repeated to himself as he tried to wipe away the relentless tears. It’s happiness.

Unlike Tokyo, it wasn’t raining in Matsumoto.

The train station was considerably smaller than the capital’s. Not entirely tiny, but more modest and calm. In Shinjuku, the hustle is considered normal, and waves of people passing through are an everyday occurrence. Strangely, luck seemed to be on his side—he hadn’t had to deal with crowds at dawn, nor now.

He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and tucked his right hand into the pocket of his jacket; despite the lack of rain, the cold was immaculate. He had heard that in November the temperature dropped more than in Tokyo due to the city’s more inland and elevated location, but the cold had never truly bothered him. It was infinitely better than scorching summer days, with insects buzzing in people’s ears and skin turning sticky with sweat mixed with uncertainty.

Few people got off at this station, while others boarded. At the third station, for some reason, the train had been the most crowded—Hachiōji. It was probably because Mount Takao was home to Takao Temple and the Buddhist temple Takao-san Yakuōin Yūkiji. In addition, it offered an incredible view of Mount Fuji, so scenic it looked like something straight out of a movie.

Suguru only knew this because he had read it in a pamphlet jammed between his seat, and two hours felt eternal to a mind desperate for distraction.

He walked for a few minutes to leave the station and venture deeper into the city, but once he passed through the automatic doors he finally understood just how different it was compared to Tokyo. There were no excessively tall buildings reverently touching the sky, nor the daily bustle found in any large city with a high population density. Even the air felt lighter, as if every resident breathed with more calm and walked the streets with serenity.

Just outside the station stood an informational sign listing street names and important tourist areas, but he ignored it completely as he passed by. He didn’t want to feel like a tourist merely passing through to see the city’s main attractions. He didn’t want that label on his shoulders—the one that categorizes him as just another person drawn in by architecture or art museums, traveling with countless suitcases only to fill them with trinkets and cameras stuffed with photos meant to project a disguised image of beauty.

He simply wanted to feel like one more person. To forget, for a second, who was truly hiding beneath his skin and allow himself to pretend to be someone else in a city as unfamiliar as happiness.

The traffic light turning in favor of pedestrians allowed him to walk alongside others who stared straight ahead. He crossed the street with a normalcy so fabricated it felt false and painfully forced. Still, when he glanced at the residents, none of them seemed to notice due to his immense irrelevance. He tried to calm his pounding heart by reasoning with it; he was just walking down an unfamiliar street, not escaping an imminent danger intent on ending his life.

His heart responded with a scoff. It feels like we’re running from death. Perhaps the anxiety would slowly pry itself loose from his ribs in the coming days, so for today he would let it slide

He spent the last twenty minutes wandering through different streets and sidewalks until he reached his destination: a small house nestled on a street quieter than the city center and slightly removed from human life—neighbors included.

He had made the reservation at the last minute—while his eyes fought to stay open and his head weighed more than an anvil—on the train seat that had felt like home for two and a half hours. It had been considerably easy due to the area it was located in: not very appealing to tourists who wanted to stay close to colorful attractions, tiny, simple, and surrounded by elderly residents who detested noise. In other words, the paradise Suguru had been looking for. Additionally, thanks to the few people who stayed there, it was incredibly cheap.

The keys were inside a lockbox attached to the doorknob. Suguru entered the four-digit code the homeowner had assigned him, and the keys came free easily. He turned them, opening the door with a click that echoed throughout the neighborhood, and pushed the worn wood aside so he could finally hide for at least a few hours before deciding to go out again.

He had expected a damp smell and the sensation of dust swimming through the air, but found none of it. It was a simple, small house, true to its description, so it was pleasant not to be surprised. Right at the entrance were narrow wooden stairs covered by a layer of soft carpet. To the right was a small room leading to a kitchen designed for simple recipes—though he would probably never use it beyond boiling a kettle or heating something in the microwave.

He went straight up to the second floor, where the single main bedroom was located, which felt fairly large due to the lack of furniture. In the corner beneath a window rested a single white futon, and beside it a desk the size of two nightstands with a lamp on top and a backless chair. The floor was a warm yellow, soft to the touch, with long, thin black lines arranged in square patterns as decoration. He dropped his bag in the middle of the room with a dull thud, and for the first time in hours his shoulders lowered with the minimal release of accumulated tension.

There was no need to unpack. In his medium-sized bag he carried only two changes of each garment, a notebook with worn edges and yellowed pages, and a toothbrush. Now that his mind was slightly clearer—compared to when he had packed these items with frantic hands and eyes that couldn’t stay dry—he wished he could have brought more. That Osamu Dazai book with the fifteenth page folded to mark where he had last read, photos from years ago still taped to his bedroom wall, his old notebooks which, despite having no blank pages left, offered him comfort whenever he read his own messy, ugly handwriting, his white earphones—almost useless since the right one didn’t work—that connected to a portable music player with barely ten pitiful songs saved, his T-shirts with the most beautiful and unique designs he had ever seen that fit him like a glove and made him feel like he belonged to the world.

He wished he had thought this through more clearly, but if he was going to disguise himself as someone different, then he had to shed guilt and regret.

He walked to the only remaining door on the second floor, knowing it had to be the bathroom, and opened it to find the narrowest, tiniest bathroom he had ever seen—one that made even public restrooms seem spacious. This was the final proof that the house was meant for only one person, and that two would already be a crowd.

With the speed that only comes from a morning exhausted by an unplanned trip at an undesirable hour, he began stripping off the clothes he was wearing and stepped into the shower before turning on the faucet. Cold water struck him like the first waves of the sea on an empty beach. He let out an uncontrollable gasp and quickly reached for the red-marked handle for hot water, turning it until the water warmed and his muscles received the soothing heat of a late-autumn shower.

It might be stupid, but showering felt absolutely necessary now that he wasn’t in Tokyo. It gave him the sensation of scrubbing the city’s air off his body with an old sponge and disinfecting the noise with the calm of a casual shower—a ritual to fully welcome Matsumoto. He felt dirty, as if the thought that his self from a city two and a half hours away was a completely different person had to be stripped from his skin immediately—and that thought felt coherent and not at all like the beginning of a downward spiral.

His hands moved over his arms with unnecessary force, scratching without realizing it due to the numbness brought on by the heat of the water cascading over his head and down his pale skin. When washing his hair, he didn’t even pay attention to the toiletries the house provided; the only thing he registered was that there was little shampoo left and that he would skip the conditioner because he lacked the patience for the meticulous process. And if he tugged at a few strands, he would convince himself it was an accident.

The shower lasted no more than ten minutes. The air quickly became suffocating with steam, and the only window remained closed.

The sound of water forcefully hitting the tiles stopped abruptly, replaced by a constant but faint dripping. His long hair clung to his forehead and damp back, and despite the discomfort, he stayed still with his gaze fixed on a single point—not truly looking, just frozen, so frozen that not even boiling water could thaw him.

If there were a mirror in front of him, he would see an immature child. He had so many things in his head, so many thoughts and whispers settling into every corner of his skull, feeding on the little energy his body had left. He didn’t know what to do with all these merciless murmurs; he didn’t know what he was supposed to do when all he felt was his mind overflowing with tragedies and bubbling laughter that tingled beneath his skin like insects endlessly gnawing and—

At the edge of his vision, he saw something move. His mind fell silent for a second, registering the new danger before him.

A spider with legs at least five centimeters long strolled casually across the wet shower floor, completely oblivious to the storm that had just occurred inside and outside the man. So calm despite its chilling appearance, so peaceful it might as well have been walking through a field of flowers after a light drizzle.

Suguru decided it was time to return to the city and escape, once again, from the place he had thought would be a home.

He hadn’t thought it possible to feel warm while it rained.

He wandered for hours through quiet streets with no plan or specific destination—not even with the idea of exploring, simply driven by the need to walk—until the sky slowly began to darken, hiding behind the fluffiness of the clouds and letting them take center stage with their relentless tears.

He carried no umbrella, nor his waterproof jacket, only a thin coat that did little to keep the cold away, so the only sensible solution was to take refuge in a random shop—at least until the rain eased.

It was a shop that looked like a house: fairly large, triangular roof, white walls with windows lined by vertical black bars that matched the dark entrance. When he stepped inside, the cold peeled away from his bones almost instantly. The air was as warm as a home whose fireplace had been burning since morning—the homely wood seemed to store warmth within its splinters.

There weren’t many people, just a few scattered around the main area of tables and assorted seating, enjoying a quiet afternoon and choosing to remain oblivious to the rain falling outside—because ignorance has always been a necessary ingredient for peace. Despite the availability of empty chairs and entire four-person tables left unused, Suguru chose to walk to the small counter attached to an open-style kitchen and sit on one of the three stools, the one farthest to the left.

He continued looking around while feeling the smooth wood of the counter beneath his fingertips. He believed this was the first time he had been in an environment so close to a home; the old kura-style building, filled with furniture that looked handmade, sent him back to a time he knew he had zero memories of living.

Only three minutes passed before a white ceramic cup appeared beneath his nose, steam rising from the dark liquid alongside a few pastel-red packets resting on the edge of the small saucer.

Suguru lowered his gaze, reading the word “sugar” on the packets before lifting his head to look for the person who had served him without him having ordered anything.

The man was already behind the counter where Suguru sat, wearing a gentle smile as he crouched down to check on a cake baking at a confident slowness. Suguru frowned slightly, blinking with visible confusion written across his face. He looked back at the coffee, then seconds later back at the man, who seemed completely oblivious to his internal conflict—he even appeared to be humming softly, no louder than a murmur.

He wanted to ask, but at the same time he didn’t feel brave enough to interrupt the strange peace emanating from the man—a peace he had never seen in anyone while working. It felt like being at a zoo, finally seeing the lions he had longed to visit, only to find them asleep and curled up together—their tails swaying lazily and their massive yawns capable of blowing down buildings. Even if he had been excited to see the lions, he deeply wished not to disturb their afternoon nap with his simple, human excitement.

The man approached the coffee machine and began preparing another drink—clearly more elaborate than a simple cup of coffee, this order included cream and various blends. Suguru immediately lowered his gaze to the cup, drumming his index finger against the counter, nervousness accompanying him as it had all day.

As the machine hummed and vibrated, joining the soft ambient noise and conversations carried by casual smiles, Suguru stared at the coffee with something indecipherable in his eyes, as if it were more than just a cup of coffee.

“It’ll get cold.”

He looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly at the subtle interruption of his thoughts. Before he could open his mouth to ask, the man spoke again.

“Your coffee,” he said, that smile never fading for even a second—and it didn’t seem remotely fake. “It’ll get cold if you stare at it instead of drinking it.”

He spoke as if he understood the confusion written in Suguru’s dark irises.

Once again, Suguru had no chance to respond because the other was already moving. He placed a saucer beneath the newly finished drink—the same small saucer Suguru had—and walked away from the counter toward a table farther back.

After that, there were no more interruptions.

At some point, he accepted the coffee he was convinced wasn’t meant for him and drank it while it was warm. The man had been right—it had cooled from being stared at instead of consumed—but the atmosphere was warm enough to replace the heat the coffee was supposed to give, so it didn’t bother him at all.

The only notebook he had managed to pack appeared beside the cup with practiced normalcy. No one looked, no one asked, no one cared enough—because he was just one more among them. That calm gave him a comfort that, even if fleeting, existed for a moment. One of the pencils he had stuffed thoughtlessly into his pocket was held by his fingers and honored with every word drawn, free from heavy thoughts or words written from the depths of the heart. No—these were simply letters dedicated to the warmth of the environment and the mundanity of the moment.

The hours passed in a blur. People came and went with soaked jackets and flushed cheeks, but most eventually left, ending their evening and leaving behind dirty plates and cups stained with remnants of hot drinks. As everything unfolded around him, Suguru didn’t move a muscle—except for his hand, which seemed to possess a mind of its own.

Eventually, the conversations of strangers that had numbed his own internal thoughts faded like the end of applause. He knew there were probably still souls like his—hidden in oddly lit corners, noses buried in simple activities like the newspaper or a crossword worth paying attention to—but silence had already taken its throne, ruling gently between the dark wooden walls. The only constant was the sounds the man made whenever he took an order or—now mostly due to the emptiness—cleaned tables and washed dishes.

He approached from behind and took Suguru’s coffee cup, walking straight behind the counter to wash it. This placed the man directly in front of him, head lowered and completely focused on his task—and not even something as simple as washing a cup could erase the smile on his lips.

Suddenly, just as he had commented about the coffee earlier, the man spoke again, shifting his gaze between Suguru and the cup.

“Would you like to order anything else?”

Suguru looked down, as if only now noticing the absence of his drink.

“Ah,” he muttered before looking back up. “I don’t think so, thanks.”

The other nodded, setting the cup and saucer aside with others to dry. He dried his hands with a red towel—the same color as the sugar packets—and leaned against the counter. “Is this your first time at Marumo?”

Suguru felt his breath hitch for a split second at the casual question. Did he notice? That I don’t belong here, that I’ve simply put on a mask to escape my life for a while? Did he really notice?

“Uh, yeah,” he said instead of spilling the rising wave of anxiety bubbling in his chest. He closed the notebook and placed the pencil atop its worn cover. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I could tell.” Suguru had to force himself not to bite his tongue at that. “People usually aren’t fully satisfied after just the complimentary coffee.”

Oh. His shoulders relaxed. He meant it’s my first time at this café—Marumo, he said. He really needed to pay more attention and stop jumping to the worst conclusions; it would probably solve at least half his problems.

He raised an eyebrow in doubt. “Complimentary coffee?”

“We serve a small cup of coffee first to welcome the customer. It’s usually followed by a dessert of choice or a hot meal, depending on the time.”

As the man explained, a couple stood up from their table to leave, stopping by the counter to casually say goodbye. The man’s smile widened as he lifted a hand and enthusiastically returned the farewell. After the small interruption—which Suguru watched with mild confusion—he turned back to the owner, another question forming in his mind, one the man answered without hearing it.

“It’s a small city. I know most of the people who come here.”

Suguru blinked, processing the information. For a moment he had thought those customers were close to him, but they were simply regulars. In Tokyo, he had never seen that—even if he went to the same café every day at the same hour, the people serving his absurdly strong coffee never remembered his name. And of course, that made sense. People were constantly passing through, and they saw millions of faces every minute. It would be egotistical to think they’d remember him.

After a brief silence, the man spoke again, this time offering a small bow in greeting.

“I’m Satoru Gojo, the owner of this café.”

He hadn’t expected the owner himself to be serving orders and washing dishes, but instead of showing surprise, he went along naturally. He returned the bow with a slight nod and said in a voice softer than the man’s, “Suguru Geto. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Suguru,” Satoru repeated, his smile hooking into something warmly genuine. Suguru didn’t have the heart to lecture him on basic respect—that they didn’t know each other well enough for such familiarity. “If you come back tomorrow, I’ll remember your name.”

The rain continued to batter Marumo’s roof, replacing the conversations that had earlier drifted through Suguru’s mind like a comforting blanket. And even though he would soon have to run through slick streets back to his humble house, he didn’t seem to mind much at all.

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed upon waking up in the morning was the delicate atmosphere reflected through the window, still dark from the deep blue light bathing the thin walls and the absolute silence around him.

The second detail he managed to grasp was the fact that he had woken up without an alarm drilling into his eardrums.

His first instinct was to lie staring at the ceiling for a maximum of ten minutes before having to shower and quickly put on warm clothes to run out —without having breakfast— to his classes. It was so ingrained in his nature that, for a fleeting second, he had forgotten that he was far away from that world and that the purpose of this trip was precisely to forget about it.

It was difficult to tell exactly whether his eyes were open or not. The darkness flooded his vision gracefully, and he couldn’t hear the morning song of any bird to confirm the time. He tilted his head to the side, finding the simple desk that stood a few steps away, pressed against the only and gigantic window —which looked like a wall on its own—, looking so peaceful and grateful for not having been disturbed in a while.

He took a deep breath, filling his chest with slightly damp air from the rain that had interrupted his dreams at least twice, and exhaled softly with a palpable slowness. Still, because of the house’s loneliness, it sounded like a hurricane sweeping through a village.

Despite not being in a hurry to get up earlier than the sun, in no time he was already sitting on the soft futon, back hunched and hands running over his tired face. The first thing he did after getting up was turn on the lamp resting on the desk, because even if the house is small and it’s hard to get lost even with a blindfold on, it was his first night here and he didn’t want to completely lose himself in the unknown. He headed to the bathroom —the orange light did little to illuminate the cold walls of the narrowest room in the place, but at least he knew where he was stepping— to rinse his eyes with warm water and brush his teeth so meticulously that his mouth thought it was at a spa session.

While he finished rinsing his toothbrush in the sink, from the long mirror he could see in the reflection what seemed to be the same spider that had visited him while he was showering, only this time it had changed positions and instead of wandering across the shower tiles, it now lazily moved its little legs from an upper corner, with no sign of relocating anytime soon. Maybe it was taking a nap, or simply catching its breath after all the walking; it’s a short distance for Suguru, but for the spider the journey from the shower to that corner seemed endless.

He returned to the room, kneeling on the carpeted floor to reach his bag and take out clothes for today. He opted to simply wear his other pair of pants but put on the same shirt and jacket from yesterday, due to his limited variety of outfits. It wasn’t like he cared much about wearing different colors on new days anyway; the only thing that mattered was whether they were clean or not.

He liked his waterproof jacket; a dark black —not dark enough to swallow glances, but similar to an abyss—, thin, yet it did its job of keeping him dry and moderately warm. Comfortable and simple, the only design it had besides the color he liked so much was a white horizontal line crossing over his chest, and the silver zipper running from his waist up to his chin.

Besides, it was a rather beloved jacket because it was a gift. His friend and classmate had bought it for him after a particularly exhausting wave of exams, and he returned the gesture with a canvas bag she had wanted for a long time. Back then Shoko had told him it wasn’t necessary to buy her something in return because she hadn’t given him the jacket with those intentions, but Suguru thought it would be rude not to. He wonders if she still uses that bag to carry her notebooks and heavy human anatomy books.

He went downstairs, stepping into the darkness of a half-awake morning since the weak light of the lamp couldn’t reach the first floor. In the kitchen, the bluish tones were even more present because of the number of windows —besides lacking curtains that could prevent their edges from freezing—, the small refrigerator and the few countertops and cabinets looked like a work of art by Picasso during his blue period. It wasn’t a surprise to see that every storage space was empty; it would have been imprudent to leave food in a house that is rarely rented. The only thing he managed to find, besides two plates and a plastic cup, was a half-empty bottle of sweetener and two small packets of salt.

How considerate, he thought as he closed the squeaky cabinet door, far too big for how little it contained. The most sensible thing to do in this situation was to wait until a grocery store opened and fill at least half of the refrigerator the size of two stacked boxes, but after considering it for one extra second —a second capable of ruining and breaking a train of thought—, he preferred to close the refrigerator door and leave it for later.

He never woke up with an appetite anyway. The appetite had abandoned him completely, actually.

After grabbing the keys from the small cabinet by the entrance and making sure his wallet was in his pants pocket, he slipped out and closed the door behind him with a soft movement so as not to bother the neighbors.

Judging by the tones of the sky and the familiar cold at this hour, it was probably no later than five in the morning. The realization that going out at this time while practically on vacation and not having any need to do so hadn’t crossed his mind yet. Instead, he pushed the thought away with an inhale of freezing air until his lungs burned and flushed at the low temperature.

However, something that struck him as absurd was the word vacation.

He wasn’t here to go sightseeing. He hadn’t packed his bags with a panic that almost made him faint in the middle of chaos just to label himself as a traveler seeking to relax the way tourists do in unfamiliar places. He hadn’t frozen a year of his university career —having to deal with the burden of being a disappointment and the most useless human being on the planet— just to even consider this vague thing as a vacation.

No, this was something more than that. It was much bigger than a vacation. It had to be something bigger than that —it had to hold meaning.

So he started walking. Without his flip phone, without being sure he had cash on him, and completely lost in a city that represented a new beginning. He made a mental note of the street where the house was located, and without rushing, kept a slow pace that matched the morning wind —blowing with solemn coldness.

He spent the entire day in a park. Specifically in Agatanomori Park, as the simple sign at one of the main entrances clearly stated.

Because of the rain from the previous day, the ground remained damp all afternoon and the skies stayed hidden behind spongy gray layers. The low temperature and the furious wind didn’t scare people away and various families arrived so their children could get some fresh air.

The park had a soft picturesque atmosphere. It didn’t look like a huge national park where tourists came just to take photos; instead, the size felt normal and fresh like any everyday park. A small pond built in a traditional style lived at the heart of the lawn, some deformed stones of different heights emerging from the crystal-clear water like old statues that had existed before humanity itself.

In general, it was a park with a traditional and old design.

Suguru couldn’t help but feel a little out of place.

In Tokyo, modernity monopolizes every corner. There are places, small environments where tradition remains alive like a bonfire with little firewood and the neighboring sea approaching at a dangerous rhythm, but it’s more for decorative purposes than as a way of life.

As he walked along the dirt paths —sometimes accompanied by stone tiles—, his feet occasionally stepping on inert orange leaves, he knew this place lived within the art of tradition. They embraced culture tightly and hadn’t let it go for years. It didn’t quite have the stagnant oldness that freezes time and makes you feel like they’re behind —instead, it was more a sense of serenity that whispered with the kindness of a mother that things should be taken slowly.

And yet, despite being able to verbalize the feeling of belonging, Suguru still felt like a traveler.

November, Wednesday. 2005.

He left a space between the month and the day to place the number, but he couldn’t remember what specific day of November it was and had left the house without his phone, he remembered bitterly.

His pencil hovered for a few seconds over the black ink with which he had written the year, still thinking about what he was supposed to write. Sometimes he still had that silly thought that whatever he scribbled had to be perfect, as if someone else were going to receive these words and judge them in detail.

No one, besides him, would witness the spill that would appear on the pages of his worn-out journal, so he had to allow himself to be imperfect beyond human imperfection.

The bench next to me looks uncomfortable. I don’t feel like sitting down anyway. Writing on an unstable wooden railing with a view of the water is harder than I thought.

He took a second to lift his gaze and confirm what he had just written. The view wasn’t impressive. He didn’t feel the urge to take a photo, or that need to remember a moment forever. Blue flooded his house and gray reigned in the park, but besides that, he couldn’t seem to make out any other color.

He pulled a loose strand of hair that had blown across his face because of the rebellious wind and tucked it behind his ear. He had forgotten to tie his hair into a bun this morning, and saying it was because he was late for classes was no longer a valid excuse.

It’s cold. It must be around 4 degrees. At least it’s not raining.

Suddenly a wave of exhaustion washed over him right after writing that line.

The pencil he held with the grace of a light feather suddenly weighed eighty kilos, turning into a rough, heavy anvil. His shoulders dropped, not as a sign of relaxation but because of the feeling of defeat.

He had read various essays about how writing helps organize the mind and release negative thoughts, but right now all he had managed was to feel even more like a foreigner. This wasn’t how he imagined it. He thought that the moment he began drawing paragraphs he would be transported directly into his brain so he could shake it with shame and silence it for at least a few minutes.

But none of that happened. In fact, the thoughts increased.

He shifted the foot that had been supporting all his weight and left the pencil on the notebook.

The worst part was that it wasn’t the first time he had written. Besides the reports he had to fill out and the letters sent to distant people, he had always considered writing an activity that had accompanied him since he was six years old. He knew that just yesterday he had brought this notebook with him and filled some pages, but his brain had been so numb —or maybe he simply hadn’t been paying attention to what he was doing— that he couldn’t even remember what he had written.

He looked back at the notebook and slipped the pencil into his jacket pocket, murmuring in his head that he would keep writing later. He grabbed the notebook with both hands, and with the fingers of his right hand began flipping through the previous pages to refresh his memory. In general, there wasn’t extensive writing, just small simple sketches of mundane objects from different perspectives, shadows made of thin lines with the same pencil, and short words naming what the drawing represented.

One page was completely filled with coffee cups. The dark liquid was represented by very close diagonal lines to resemble something dark and dense, but without fully coloring it in. The steam floated like vague lines drawn without much precision but following the same direction until reaching a specific point. The shadows of the porcelain were made with more lines, but this time they did touch each other unlike the coffee ones; horizontal lines over vertical ones, increasingly closer together the darker it was. If he squinted, the lines turned into paint, and it would look more like a piece of art than a mathematical field.

Just above the cup, written in ugly and careless handwriting, was the word Marumo. His handwriting had always been indecent. He had teachers who spoke fast and articulated so strangely that he didn’t even have time to take care of his lines. In any case, he had always been able to read his own notes, and that was all that mattered. Shoko mocked him, but not even she escaped the silly rumor that all doctors have almost illegible handwriting.

Marumo.

He had completely forgotten.

He didn’t know what exactly drove him to slam the notebook shut and adopt a faster walk than usual; his poor stomach that hadn’t eaten since the coffee the night before or his false promise that he would keep writing if he changed scenery. For some reason, neither option seemed right.

When he arrived, there were more people than the previous time.

The chatter had doubled, the tables in the main area were more crowded, and he noticed that there was more than one person attending tonight.

He didn’t think much and headed to the same small three-seat counter from yesterday, only this time he had to sit next to a man who, judging by his wrinkles, was somewhat older. A shiny cup was placed right under his nose along with the same two packets of sugar, the only difference being that now he knew what this cup represented, and that he shouldn’t feel surprised because it was something completely normal.

He couldn’t help but smile faintly at the newly acquired feeling of familiarity coming from a new experience. The first time he felt like a resident.

However, this time he took one of the menus resting on the small table beside him. Although he was hungry, his appetite always took a while to arrive, whether a few hours or a few years —there wasn’t much difference. But he had already learned that it was unusual not to order food after the complimentary coffee, and he was really trying to go unnoticed.

He took a sip of his coffee, not caring about the bitterness that mercilessly attacked his taste buds. It wasn’t that he truly liked it, but after years of forcing himself to stay awake, he had gotten used to the flavor.

Although…

He lowered the cup, conflict scratching at his face.

Despite not needing it, and not even disliking it, he ended up opening both sugar packets and sprinkling them into the dark liquid with strange speed.

Maybe the person he is in this city does hate bitter black coffee. Maybe this person does care about feeling small satisfactions from time to time.

After taking another sip —this one softer, lighter—, he prepared to check the menu that had remained forgotten by his side.

The man next to him shifted in his seat, making his jacket rustle —a sound that got lost among the lively conversations of the customers. He wasn’t very sure what to order, everything had an exquisite name that invited him to try it, but nothing really caught his attention. It’s hard to choose what to eat when nothing appeals to you; it’s like going out to buy swimming pools in winter: you understand that the prices are significantly lower but you don’t know which one to buy because the cold dulls the future need to cool off.

“Suguru, hey!”

Immediately he lifted his gaze from the menu upon recognizing the voice —the first voice he recognized in the city—, meeting those bright blue eyes and the same serene smile from yesterday.

He lowered the menu until it rested on the counter and replied, “You really remembered my name.”

“Of course, I said I would and I did.” He let out a small laugh before grabbing a freshly washed cup and drying it for a few seconds with the towel hanging from his shoulder over a clean white shirt. He had his sleeves rolled up —just like yesterday— and a dark brown apron that looked black under the yellowish light. “Will you order something today? Or are you fine with just your coffee?”

Suguru didn’t know whether it was a genuine or sarcastic comment, but either way he smiled softly while tucking a strand behind his ear. “I don’t know what to order.”

Satoru made a slightly exaggerated sound of understanding and nodded, moving toward the coffee machine beside him while keeping the conversation going. “I can recommend several dishes, but it depends on what you feel like right now. We have sweets, desserts, drinks, and full snacks. You choose.”

He lowered his gaze back to the menu, the words still seemed blurred and scattered in the wrong places as if a hurricane had passed at full speed. He suppressed a sigh and instead bit the inside of his cheek until he felt the familiar metallic taste roll over his tongue.

Seconds passed, the silence turned into something longer than just someone deciding what to eat. Satoru had finished preparing the coffee, something simple but with cream on top that made it look like ice cream. Suguru was so absorbed in the words that gave him absolutely nothing that he didn’t notice Satoru had left to serve the coffee to a distant table.

When the man returned, this time with dirty plates, he left them soaking in the sink before leaning on the counter and looking at Suguru.

“Still haven’t decided?”

He shook his head.

“Ah.” His smile softened as he tilted his head to the side, thinking for a second. “Chef’s choice, then.”

When Suguru lifted his gaze, Satoru had already walked toward the kitchen.

Technically, he could still see him, he was only a few steps away, but interrupting his peace again seemed wrong. So instead of creating a conversation that wouldn’t contribute to either of them, he dedicated himself to observing someone completely immersed in his own nature.

Satoru worked with barely perceptible speed; his hands didn’t hesitate, he maintained a constant and fixed rhythm, yet at the same time the calmness with which he did it gave the impression that he was moving slowly and unhurriedly. He didn’t look like a man submerged in a serious task; rather, he was someone who simply enjoyed the process and also recognized its importance. If he knew how, he would compare him to a loving mother baking cookies for children who don’t know hunger.

A young woman appeared wearing the same apron as Satoru, but her presence was brief. She came to drop off some dirty cups and fill the round black tray with freshly baked cookies. She passed by Satoru to whisper something in his ear, and whatever she said made the man let out a soft laugh. Before leaving with the cookies, she made eye contact with Suguru and greeted him with a kind and brief smile.

He only had enough time to tilt his head quickly in greeting, since she had already completely left. It seems everyone here has the habit of greeting whoever it is.

Three minutes later, a new plate appeared in front of him.

It was gelatinous; even just by looking at it he knew it would be soft and melt in his mouth. A pointed white cream rested in the center, with a cherry on top for simple decoration. He didn’t have much time to admire the plate because a tiny spoon on top of a rectangular napkin slid in from his right side with a relaxed movement.

“Homemade pudding,” Satoru described easily. “Personally, one of my favorites —although most desserts are my favorites, so that doesn’t make it very different.” He let out a soft laugh, as soft as the pudding looked. “Anyway, I promise it’s good.”

Suguru thanked him while taking the spoon with his own hand. He felt the expectant gaze of the man in front of him and wondered if he was like this with all customers. He had mentioned that he knew most of them, so his open personality wasn’t a surprise. Maybe he only acted like this with new faces, as if the opinion of each person who walked in was as important as that of a critic.

With the spoon, he scooped a small piece of the mass —testing its texture as he cut through it— along with some of the white cream. Without much ceremony, he brought it to his lips, and immediately knew he didn’t have to chew much because of how soft the pudding was. The sweetness wasn’t actually very strong; he knew it was a dessert, but he hadn’t expected it to be so delicate. The amount of sugar was perfect, the cream even managed to further calm the main flavor, the pudding was fluffy and easy to swallow.

He still didn’t have much appetite, but at least his stomach would thank him for the effort.

He lifted his gaze, forgetting for a second about the blue eyes staring at him without blinking, and replied a little hurriedly before swallowing. “It–it’s good.”

The man relaxed, straightening a little. He blinked, and it seemed like his smile only became even brighter.

“I’m glad!” The same young woman from before came back, this time without stopping to say anything. She simply added more dirty plates to the soaking pile and went back to work. “If you come back tomorrow, I’ll serve you something even better.”

Again with the invitation to come back. Suguru didn’t say anything after that, and in any case Satoru had to leave to serve the complimentary coffee to other customers who had just arrived.

Chapter Text

He woke up at the same hour as yesterday—he knew it the moment he opened his eyes abruptly, finding himself once again submerged in the deep marine blue.

This time, getting up took more effort. Just like the previous morning, for a brief second he felt the urgency to get to class on time, only that this time it wasn’t enough to push him out of the futon.

This is not the first time this has happened to him.

In fact, mornings where the mere idea of going out into the real world weighs more than a gigantic rock are normal for him. It is a blessing that universities are less demanding compared to high school when it comes to attendance, because if they were based on the days he missed, they probably would have already kicked him out of the program.

He has always been someone who misses too much. When he went to school, he missed most Wednesdays because it’s the middle of the week, and for some reason that always weighed heavily on his chest. He almost never stayed until the end of the day, always having to beg his mother to come pick him up a few hours early because everything simply was too much.

His mother always sighed from the other side of the phone, but when she spoke she never sounded disappointed. She was good at hiding things. The school he attended was close to his house since he grew up in a small and simple town—vehicles weren’t necessary for transportation, so the walk back home was always a little uncomfortable since they walked slowly and slightly apart.

The few times his mother asked what was wrong, he would just say his stomach hurt, and she would respond—with a murmur too sharp and her eyes fixed straight ahead—’then we’ll have to take you to the doctor soon.’However, they never went. Suguru didn’t really care either; he was spared from having to visit the grumpy old man who knew about human biology, so in reality it was a win.

After a short while, when he was already considered a teenager, she stopped asking. She still sighed after receiving the call, but hung up immediately after he finished talking. It became a routine, and although at first he felt something similar to pain, he understood that there had never been any kind of betrayal because in the first place there hadn’t even been a bond to betray.

When he left the town to settle in the capital of Japan and live the full experience of a big city, she didn’t even sigh after the call anymore, because she never answered.

There were days—several days—when he wished he could call her so she would come pick him up. University is four times harder than school, and surviving a single two-hour class felt like his ribs were being torn out one by one with a detestable slowness.

He knew that even if he called her, she wouldn’t come. They cut off all contact years ago. However, there were still a couple of times when he got up in the middle of class to go back to his apartment, pretending that right behind the door she was waiting for him with her awkward smile, so fragile that the wind had the power to steal it away.

Thinking about that only made him feel worse, and he doesn’t know why. Years have passed, he reminds himself, an endless chorus inside his head. It’s not supposed to still hurt.

So he buried himself in the white futon blanket, which despite having remained with him all night seems incapable of absorbing his body heat. Or maybe he simply doesn’t possess that trait.

He lay on his side, with one arm under the pillow and the other close to his chest, closing his eyes until he furrowed his brow and his eyelids trembled. He tried to sink back into deep sleep, curling up in nonexistent memories that never happened but bring some comfort on the coldest nights, and erase painful memories.

He forgets that, since it’s the third day, he should fill the refrigerator to at least pretend some normalcy, but he sleeps until five in the afternoon.

When he arrived at the café—with agitated breathing and numb feet—from outside he could see how they were slowly preparing to close the place.

There were still a few customers inside, but on their tables there were only dirty plates or open wallets to pay and leave. Suguru knows it would be imprudent to arrive and order something when the workers are eager to go home.

He doesn’t know why he had gotten up so hurriedly at the thought of having to come here soon. Maybe Satoru’s invitation to try something new is enough to motivate him to get out of bed, either for the simple fact of satisfying his tongue with something sweet and delicious or because knowing that something was waiting for him somewhere in this city made him feel less like an outlaw. He didn’t know exactly.

He turned on his heels and put his hands into his jacket pockets. The adrenaline of running out from his room to here drained like a squeezed orange in a matter of seconds, and the familiar dizziness began to settle into his body with practiced normality.

Since he’s already up, he should take advantage and do what he has postponed for so long: his refrigerator. He knows that filling it completely with fresh vegetables and proper food would only be a big waste of money. They wouldn’t take long to rot because of his lack of interest in preparing them. But at least he could buy instant food that has enough calories to at least feel his stomach satisfied for the whole day. He could go to a twenty-four-hour convenience store and buy six packs of instant noodles and that way he wouldn’t have to think about food for a week and a few days.

He can’t help but sigh. He didn’t feel like getting up, much less leaving the house. And the main reason he had done so is now discarded due to external reasons. If he had known, he wouldn’t have bothered pretending to be alive at least just for today.

“Suguru! You made it!”

He had barely taken two steps away from the café when he was interrupted by the only voice he can recognize.

He turned around, eyebrows slightly raised in surprise, and took a second to look at the man; he had a broom in his hands and the same brown apron on with a white stain that he suspects is flour. He was already smiling when he turned around, but Suguru had already been able to hear it in his tone of voice.

“Hey,” he says a little awkwardly. Then he nodded, glancing briefly towards the cafeteria while making a small gesture “I think I got here too late.”

Satoru passes the broom to his right hand while responding, “Yeah, a little. We’re finishing cleaning the place, and the last customers are already about to leave.”

He nods with a sound of understanding, pretending he hadn’t noticed that detail. He opened his mouth to say something and stretch the conversation when the wind swept in with a ferocity he still hasn’t learned to get used to and wrapped around his already trembling figure. Not even his waterproof jacket did much to quiet the cold.

He hadn’t noticed that he had closed his eyes for a few seconds while the wind attacked him mercilessly, and when he opened them carefully, he saw Satoru approaching him until he stood right in front of him.

“Come, let’s go inside. I’ll serve you a hot cup of coffee so you can warm up.” He points with a frown caused by unexpected concern.

Suguru didn’t even have time to react to his words, much less when Satoru took his arm and began to drag him toward the café with some urgency, as if Suguru were bleeding out and the place was the emergency room. The change of atmosphere was instant; compared to the windy weather outside, it was as warm as that rainy day when he visited for the first time. It was clear they had kept the fireplace fire alive all this time to the point that the wood itself had absorbed the heat.

Satoru takes him to the same seat he has sat in these past two days, forcing him with hands on his shoulders to rest before turning around and going to the other side of the counter. The man went straight to the coffee machine, already with a clean cup in firm hands and a determined look. The sound of the machine working quickly filled the place, silencing the exit of the last remaining customers and the workers lifting chairs onto tables to clean.

When the cup appeared in his view, he was surprised by how different it was compared to the cups of coffee he had received before.

Instead of being a liquid as opaque as the color of his hair, it was softer and more colorful, bright with milk that sweetens the drink. The cup wasn’t the same either; it was bigger, taller to add extra content to the portion. On the small plate there weren’t two simple sugar packets, but a small chocolate carefully wrapped in a golden-colored package.

This wasn’t a simple bitter cup of coffee with the excuse of starting the day. It was a hot drink meant to be enjoyed slowly and to feel the warmth travel through the body like a soft little blanket just taken out of the dryer.

He stayed staring at the liquid with surprise written on his face, and when he lifted his gaze to thank the man who prepared it for him, he was already turning around to sit by his side.

“The dessert I had planned to show you sold out a couple of hours ago.” In his tone it sounded like he truly felt regretful and sorry about it. “I could make you another one that’s also delicious, but it would take me a little time to make it.”

Suguru looked at him like he was crazy.

“You don’t have to worry—” He spoke with his words slightly broken. A whirlwind of thoughts crashed against the edges of his head because of what he had just witnessed. “I— this is enough. More than enough. Thank you. And—and I’m sorry.”

Satoru rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, tilting his head with the question written on his features. “Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who didn’t keep my word.”

“You were just preparing to close. I shouldn’t have come in in the first place.”

Satoru looks around, turning a little in his seat to analyze more deeply. There were only two employees left, and they were already finishing cleaning. The tables were shining, the plates already washed, dried, and stored in their respective cabinets, the windows shone, every corner of the floor had been swept with impenetrable dedication, and the last two workers were taking it so calmly that they even started a conversation between themselves while finishing the last details.

After a moment, Satoru turned his attention back to Suguru, who had shifted his gaze to the cup and slightly pursed his lips as if sinking into dragging guilt.

“They don’t mind,” he ended up saying. And it’s true. They probably just glanced at the scene without paying attention and continued with their business.

A few seconds passed where the silence between them expanded. Thoughts passed in front of Suguru’s dark eyes like a newspaper announcing the news. He grimaced, but didn’t express any of them. Instead, he brought the hot cup to his lips and began to take small sips to prevent burning his tongue; the feeling of that tragedy is almost intolerable.

The grimace was instantly erased the moment the flavor embraced his taste buds. It definitely tastes different from black coffee, he thought, almost savoring the remaining foam on his lips like a small child. Beside him, Satoru watched attentively. When Suguru looked at him again, he noticed the man had the same look as the night before: anticipation to see the customer’s reaction.

“I like it.”

He shifted in his seat, frowning playfully while resting his cheek against his palm again. “That’s all you have to say? Seriously? Not even a ‘it’s the best drink I’ve ever had in my life’?”

Suguru doesn’t have much more to say. He wonders if the few sips of coffee are what’s keeping him warm or the homey atmosphere that surrounds him like an old blanket impossible to throw away. He wonders if it was hard for Satoru to make the drink, although he already knows the answer because he saw how in a matter of seconds the cup was already in front of him. He wonders if Satoru or another employee will have to wash his dirty cup, and how many minutes of free time it will take away from them because of his own greed.

Instead of letting the words flow in his saliva and escape between his teeth, he preferred to solemnly nod his head and return his attention to the steaming drink.

From the way Satoru straightened up, he probably thought his comment wasn’t even remotely funny based on the reaction he got—not rejection, but not a smile either. Suguru wasn’t the type who enjoyed meaningless small talk—or so he thinks. He doesn’t really remember—so throwing out empty phrases with no underlying complexity would be a huge waste.

Strangely, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Satoru’s smile returned immediately—he noticed it from the corner of his eye. He didn’t try to speak again after that. They sat side by side, allowing the soft and calm atmosphere to settle between them, only being interrupted twice when the last employees said goodbye for the day. Suguru drank his coffee calmly, not exactly rushing to finish it quickly but also not imitating a sick snail.

In the end, when he left the cup on the small white porcelain plate, leaving it completely empty except for the remains of cream, he moved his hand to his pants pockets to take out his wallet. Satoru approached, slightly raising his hands as a sign to stop him.

“Wait—it’s on the house. This time.” Suguru looks at him confused for the second time that day. “I was the one who insisted on preparing something for you. Besides, take it as an apology for not serving you a better dessert than yesterday’s.”

As he left the café, looking back once to notice how Satoru had already gone to the kitchen to wash the cup, he once again wondered in his head if this kindness and hospitality is normal in small cities with reduced communities.

He talks to me like he owes me something.

He returned home with his heart heavy in his hands.

The doors opened with a soft push from the nurse who was walking a few steps ahead of him. The tall man stayed standing, stepping aside to allow him to walk without too much effort and reach the other side. He only nodded slightly as he passed by him, still keeping his gaze low and his feet heavy, as if they were leading him to his execution.

This event has happened so many times in the past that the nurse no longer even opens his mouth to give medical recommendations; rest, avoid solid food, drink lots of water, and in case of vomiting keep him in bed. Now, once his small body reaches the burning sun that rests over them, the nurse turns to let the doors close again with a forced bang that made the ground shake.

His mother was there, of course. She always was.

He didn’t have to lift his head to know she was standing with her arms crossed and that indecipherable expression surrounding her features. He walks toward her, still with his head down, gripping the edges of his school apron with his fists clenched tightly until turning his tiny knuckles into a sharp white.

They began to walk as soon as he reached her side. From his limited field of vision he saw that his mother was wearing a white and impeccable yukata, long like a dress and loose like wool. Her dark sandals were lost in the imposing shadow her figure created, the sounds of her footsteps seemed like those of a well-crafted spy who had dedicated her entire life to making as little noise as possible while walking.

Suguru could see her feet moving, could see the way she walked. But no sound came from her—like a ghost.

He had waited for her to ask. He didn’t feel like answering, or elaborating such an obvious lie that both of them knew the truth, however something inside him screamed for him to beg for at least a hint of concern. To bend under desperation and kneel on the cold concrete path full of crossroads and dirt so that the woman who gave him life would look at him, really look at him, and ask if he felt okay.

The answer is no—no, he is not okay. He hasn’t been for a while. No, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to feel complete, filled by a ridiculous emotion that doesn’t need effort to be deciphered because of its simplicity. No—he doesn’t feel full of that silly sensation of strength and bravery in the face of a long and painful life; he knows low moments await him, moments where he feels underwater, moments like these because it’s the only thing he has known for a while.

He felt like he was losing his mind, or rather, the sanity that comes attached to it. He pretends everything continues sailing at its constant rhythm, he pretends his chest doesn’t swell with a dark black ball that whispers behind his ears ideas—thoughts that make him tremble with the nausea he feels every time he looks at himself in the mirror. He pretends his bones are where they belong, that his organs don’t claw to be freed from the secured box, breaths that seem to get stuck in his throat.

He pretends he doesn’t feel like he’s rotting every day that passes. That he doesn’t think he can’t do this for much longer. That he doesn’t consider the idea of simply collapsing under the weight and letting the worms eat his brains.

He pretends. He pretends, and pretends. He pretends until he escapes this town and leaves as far as possible from that flimsy wooden house infested with insects in the corners and broken windows that welcome the cold winter breeze.

He pretends until he swallows those lies, until he believes that his act of pretending is the act of truth.

He pretends until he forces himself to believe that he stopped pretending years ago.