Expired First Love: Section 1 - chapter 3

 The content warning is in the footnotes⁰.

Previous TOC Next

Murakami hardly spoke. Even when Uno initiated conversation, Murakami sometimes didn’t reply at all.

Murakami made a mess of the apartment. He would leave empty cup noodle containers on the living room table. At its worst, he would spill things and leave them. A stain from spilled ramen still lingered on the carpet. He would also carelessly toss empty beer cans, and tissues he had used to blow his nose never made it to the trash can.

The clothes Murakami wore were dirty and smelled bad, but Uno never told him to wash them. The same went for bathing—no matter how filthy Murakami got, Uno never told him to take a bath.

The smell of Murakami seeped into the living room. When Murakami wasn’t there, Uno would ventilate the room and spray air freshener. The smell would disappear for a moment, but as soon as Murakami returned, it would be back. It was as if just being alive made him reek like rotting garbage.

Every day, Uno checked the envelope in the drawer. Like clockwork, the contents dwindled by 10,000 yen each day. It hadn’t been his imagination after all. And the man who was stealing from him sat on the sofa watching TV, without a care in the world.

One Sunday, after shopping, Uno stopped by a pachinko parlor near his apartment. The place was filled with middle-aged men and women, some in tracksuits, others in business attire. There were also a few young women with heavily styled hair and even some housewives with shopping bags and elderly women.

As Uno slowly walked through the rows of pachinko machines, he found him. Murakami was staring intently at a machine, completely absorbed. Despite the crowd, there was a clear three-meter radius around Murakami, as if an invisible barrier had been erected. The pachinko parlor reeked of cigarette smoke, but Murakami’s stench was even more overpowering.

Uno returned to his apartment and checked the envelope before the thief came back. Another 10,000 yen was missing, leaving only 40,000 yen. He put the envelope back in the drawer, careful not to let anyone know he was checking the balance.

Murakami was a terrible man. He was staying in the apartment of a college friend out of kindness, yet he stole money from that friend every day. And the money he stole was being spent on pachinko. Money that his friend worked hard to earn, being wasted on gambling—day after day.

He was the lowest of the low. A man like that had no value. Uno kept repeating this to himself. In reality, Murakami was awful. He was basically a criminal.

But suddenly, Uno's string of curses stopped. Murakami was already bad enough, but could he become even worse? Could he do something so horrible that Uno would finally be disgusted, that he’d be repelled in an instant?

In five days, the money in the envelope would be gone. What would Murakami do then? Would he leave quietly? Would he ask to borrow more money? Or would he threaten Uno with a knife, demanding cash?

Was it cruel of him to wish that his friend, who had already hit rock bottom, would sink even lower until he was utterly irredeemable?

Lost in thought, Uno ate his convenience store bento and took a shower. He browsed the internet for a while, and before he knew it, it was past 11 p.m. Murakami was late. He usually returned before 9 p.m. Could he have left for good? The thought made Uno’s chest tighten with anxiety.

Just then, the doorbell rang. He’s finally back. Uno unlocked the door, preparing to welcome what would surely be a disappointment.

The door swung open forcefully, and Uno was startled not just by the speed but by Murakami’s face as he entered the apartment. His right eye was swollen, the area under his nose was red, and the corner of his lip was split.

"What happened to your face?" Uno asked.

Murakami kicked off his sneakers and stepped into the hallway.

"Who hit you? Are you okay?" Uno grabbed Murakami’s arm as he entered the living room, but Murakami violently shook him off. Uno stumbled, crashing into the bookshelf, and fell to the floor along with a pile of books.

"Ow..."

As Uno held his head, bruised from the impact, he looked up to see Murakami standing over him. His lip curled in a grimace, and his eyes seemed... almost afraid.

"I’m fine," Uno forced a small smile, trying not to worry him. Murakami quickly looked away.

"But what about you? Are you okay?"

Murakami flopped onto the sofa and pulled a sheet over his head, clearly shutting out any further questions. His posture screamed, "Don’t ask."

Uno gathered the scattered books and returned to his bedroom. His head throbbed a bit, but it wasn’t serious.

The Murakami he knew in college would never have pushed someone like that, not even as a joke. He had seen Murakami countless times at camping trips, and the only time he had spoken harshly was to a girl who had been openly hitting on him.

...The Murakami of today was a terrible man. Pushing away a friend who was worried about him—that was rough. Even as he tried to dwell on the negative, Uno couldn’t shake the image of Murakami hiding under the sheet.

If only Murakami had pushed him away with that emotionless, mask-like face and carried on as if nothing had happened, Uno might have been able to feel hurt. But the look of fear in Murakami's eyes betrayed that he still felt some guilt, and Uno couldn’t ignore it.

Even if he wished things were different, he couldn’t control or predict how people would react.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The next morning, Murakami was still sleeping when Uno was ready to leave for work. He was still completely covered by the sheet, so maybe he was awake, but Uno didn’t say anything. It was likely awkward after what had happened the day before.

About an hour after Uno got to work, Kawasaki asked him, "Uno, do you have the Komazawa Corp. plan?"

"Yes," Uno responded, trying to pull up the data, but then he frowned. It wasn’t there. He searched through his drawers and rifled through his desk.

"Is it not there? We need it for the presentation this afternoon," Kawasaki said, sounding worried.

Uno knew he had checked it earlier in the week. He was sure he hadn’t deleted it... but it was nowhere to be found. He remembered that he had planned to revise it with additional materials, but had taken it home to avoid staying late at the office.

"I’m sorry, I left the USB drive with the data at home," Uno said, glancing at the clock.

"I’ll go get it right now. I’ll make sure it’s ready for the presentation."

Grabbing only his wallet and smartphone, Uno dashed out of the office. He briefly considered taking a taxi, but his apartment was in an area with lots of one-way streets, and traffic jams could easily delay him. It was too risky when he was in a hurry.

He ran from the subway station, reaching his apartment in about thirty minutes. The worn sneakers at the entrance indicated that Murakami hadn’t gone out. When Uno entered the living room, Murakami suddenly rushed out of the bedroom.

Until now, Murakami hadn’t moved from the sofa except to go to the bathroom. He had never gone into the bedroom.

Murakami walked past Uno with his head down and quickly left the apartment, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang.

Uno stood there, stunned. The honk of a car horn from outside jolted him back to reality. He hurried into the bedroom and retrieved the forgotten USB drive. After slipping it into his pocket, he stared at the desk drawer. It was slightly ajar. Cautiously, he opened it. The envelope, which had been neatly placed upright yesterday, was now slanted. He checked inside—it contained 30,000 yen. Another 10,000 yen was missing.

The timing couldn’t have been worse—Uno had walked in on Murakami stealing from him. If he had been five minutes later, maybe he wouldn’t have caught him. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

He put the envelope back in the drawer, leaving it slightly askew, and returned to the office. He made it back in time for the afternoon meeting, so Kawasaki only commented, "That was a close one." However, the morning had been wasted, and Uno had to stay an extra hour to make up for it.

On the train ride home, Uno wondered if Murakami would come back. If this were the Murakami from college, he wouldn’t return. But the Murakami of today... might.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

At five minutes to midnight, Murakami returned. With his head down, he walked straight to the living room, where he sat on his usual spot on the sofa and wrapped himself in the now-brown-stained sheet.

As Uno watched the whole process, he thought Murakami should at least act more boldly. He should own up to it, as if to say, "Yeah, I’m stealing your money—so what?" Until now, Murakami had shown no guilt on his face despite his daily theft.

Even though Murakami might have realized that Uno had caught on to his theft, he still came back, indicating that his sense of shame had likely dulled.

"Uno."

Murakami, wrapped in a sheet, peeked his face out and looked at him. It was the first time since Murakami had started staying at Uno’s place that he had called him by name.

Something suddenly flew towards Uno. Not understanding what it was, Uno instinctively dodged to the right. It hit the bookshelf, bounced off, and rolled to his feet. It was a cylindrical container of chocolates.

"For you."

That was all Murakami said before disappearing back under the sheet. Uno picked up the chocolates that had been thrown at him.

"...Thanks," he said, offering a token of gratitude as he took them into his bedroom. He placed the chocolates on the table, puzzled. After spending so much time eating everything in sight in someone else's home, why had Murakami suddenly decided to throw him a treat? Did Murakami think that offering him chocolates, likely some cheap prize from a pachinko parlor, would make up for the theft?

What did Murakami think of him, anyway? Did he really believe that a man of Uno's age could be placated with something so trivial? Was that all Uno was worth to Murakami—no more valuable than a cheap box of chocolates?

Murakami’s actions were so sloppy and thoughtless that it left Uno feeling empty. Or maybe, this was just a reflection of the level Murakami’s mind was currently operating at.

Despite Murakami’s dirty appearance, his arrogant attitude, and the fact that he was stealing money, it was this single, casually tossed piece of candy that made Uno feel like he might genuinely start to hate him.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

For the next two days after Uno witnessed Murakami emerging from his bedroom, the 30,000 yen in the envelope remained untouched. During those two days, Murakami stayed home, and when Uno returned in the evening, Murakami was in the living room.

While at home, Murakami was clearly more irritable than usual. He couldn’t stop bouncing his leg and, instead of staying put on the sofa as usual, he wandered around the room with a scowl on his face.

On the third day after the incident, when Uno came home, Murakami was gone, and the money in the envelope had decreased to 20,000 yen. Murakami returned around 9 p.m., his face flushed from alcohol, and after collapsing onto the sofa, he began snoring loudly. The next day, the remaining money in the envelope dropped to 10,000 yen, and once again, Murakami came home drunk.

The day after that, with only 10,000 yen left in the envelope, was a Saturday. On weekends, Uno would deliberately go out in the morning, saying, "I’m going shopping," so that Murakami could easily steal money.

That morning, it was raining, and though he found it a bit of a hassle, Uno told Murakami, "I’m heading to the bookstore," and left the apartment at 11 a.m. After buying some magazines and a novel, he had lunch at a ramen shop and wandered around for about three hours.

Expecting Murakami to have stolen the money and gone out to a pachinko parlor, Uno was surprised to find him at home. He was on the sofa, wrapped in a sheet despite the weather being warm, watching a soccer match on TV. Back in college, Uno used to watch soccer to have something to talk about with Murakami, but he had never really developed an interest in it.

Murakami's smell filled the living room, and since it was raining, Uno couldn't open the windows. He retreated to his bedroom and watched TV on his smartphone, but even that got boring. He tried reading one of the books he had bought, but Murakami showed no signs of leaving. Feeling the urge for coffee, Uno left the bedroom and went to the kitchen. As he set the kettle on the stove, he turned back.

"Murakami, do you want some coffee?"

There was no response, as usual, but Uno couldn’t help asking. It felt wrong to make coffee just for himself. The kettle boiled quickly, and as the aroma of coffee began to fill the kitchen, it pushed back against the stench of Murakami that had seeped into the room.

"I...want to die."

The words came from behind him. Uno didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. At some point, the TV had been turned off, leaving only the sound of rain.

Should he ask why Murakami felt like dying? Should he offer to listen? But maybe Murakami hadn’t been speaking to him at all—maybe it was just an idle comment.

If Murakami said anything more, Uno decided he would ask. He busied himself with tidying up the kitchen, waiting, but nothing followed that one statement.

In the end, Uno took his coffee back to his bedroom. He couldn’t stop thinking about Murakami’s words: "I want to die." He regretted not asking about it earlier. Unable to bear it any longer, Uno was just about to reach for the door when—

"Why don’t you ever say anything to me?"

The voice from the living room was clearly directed at him. Had Murakami seen through his hesitation? It had been over half a month since Murakami had started staying with him. Why bring it up now, after all this time?

Even now, Uno couldn’t bring himself to leave the bedroom. He had no answer. How could he explain that the reason he hadn’t said anything was because he wanted to hate Murakami?

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The next morning, when Uno woke up, Murakami was gone. He had never been awake before Uno, and after yesterday’s events, the idea that Murakami might have gone off somewhere to die flashed through Uno’s mind, draining the blood from his face. The gloomy, rainy weather only added to his anxiety.

Should he report this to the police? But he wasn’t a relative, nor had they had any contact with Murakami’s family. Unable to stay put, Uno spent the day wandering around the neighborhood. If there was a tall building, he went up to the roof. If there was a river, he stared intently at the water’s surface from the bridge. He walked all day, forgetting to eat, and by evening, he returned home to find a dark figure huddled in front of the entrance.

It was the man he had spent the entire day searching for, sitting with his back against the door. Exhausted, Uno nearly collapsed on the spot. Murakami had said he "wanted to die," but not that he would actually do it. Uno had just been worrying himself sick over nothing.

"I had something to take care of, sorry to keep you waiting," Uno said.

Murakami shook his head and stood up, holding a plastic-wrapped package close to his chest. Since coming to stay, it was the first time Uno had seen Murakami buy anything other than canned beer and chocolates. He was curious about what it was, but he didn’t ask.

After spending the whole day walking and sweating, Uno’s clothes were filthy. He longed for a shower. As he thought about this, Murakami spoke up.

"Uh, can I use your bath?"

Uno couldn’t believe his ears. Murakami, asking for a bath? When Uno just stood there in shock, the unkempt man rubbed his face with his dark hands.

"...If it’s a problem, I’ll go to a public bath."

"N-no, it’s not a problem at all. Go ahead and use it. The towels are in the cupboard, take whichever you like."

Murakami nodded briefly and disappeared into the bathroom. Something as simple as taking a bath was normal, but after all this time without showing any interest in personal hygiene, Murakami’s request had caught Uno off guard.

Murakami's bath took a long time, and during that time, Uno couldn't relax, feeling as anxious as a parent waiting for a child taking an exam. After an hour, when Murakami finally emerged, he was wearing clothes that Uno had never seen before. The faded jeans and checkered shirt were worn and clearly not new, but they were infinitely better than the dirty, smelly clothes he had been wearing before.

And, for once, standing close to him, Uno realized that Murakami didn’t smell. The stench that had been like a bucket of rotting garbage was gone, replaced by the faint scent of Uno's body wash.

It was a relief... or at least, it should have been. Murakami moved to sit on the sofa, as usual, but Uno stopped him, saying, "W-wait." He quickly removed the sheet that had been covering the sofa and replaced it with a clean one. Murakami stood for a moment, then cautiously sat down when Uno said, "You can sit now."

Uno wondered what had prompted this change in Murakami's behavior as he went to take his own bath. In the bathroom, a strange smell lingered, and he soon discovered the source—Murakami's old clothes, neatly folded and placed in the corner. Although the bathroom was still humid, there was no trace of Murakami's usual stench. The only thing left behind was a single curly black hair on the edge of the floor, which, the thought of being Murakami's, stirred something strange within Uno.

When Uno came out of the bath, Murakami was lying face down on the sofa, sleeping. It was clear that he had deliberately gone to sleep rather than dozing off by accident—he had even turned off the TV properly. His hair, though, still looked wet and heavy, suggesting he hadn’t dried it. Even though he had washed his body, he hadn’t shaved, leaving him with a scruffy appearance. Uno also noticed how unusually dark Murakami's ears were, as if he had forgotten to wash around them.

Before he knew it, Uno had been staring at Murakami’s face for an uncomfortably long time. If Murakami knew he had been watching like that, he would probably find it creepy. Embarrassed, Uno quickly retreated to his bedroom.

Murakami had taken a bath and changed clothes. The contents of the plastic bag he had brought back were probably the secondhand clothes he was now wearing. Something was changing in Murakami, but Uno couldn’t imagine what direction it would take.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The next morning, when Uno woke up, Murakami was not on the living room sofa. On the table was a note in Murakami's handwriting: "Used the washing machine." The sound of the washing machine rumbling in the laundry room echoed through the apartment.

The washing machine finished before Uno left for work, so he hung the clothes by the window to dry. The smell wasn't completely gone, but it had drastically reduced to the point where it was only a faint odor.

That night, when Uno came home, Murakami was gone. The clothes Uno had hung out in the morning were dry, so he folded them and placed them beside the sofa.

Murakami returned around 9 p.m., now sweaty and smelly again despite having been so clean earlier. He immediately collapsed onto the sofa and fell asleep.

The next day, when Uno woke up, Murakami was again absent, but the washing machine was running, and the bathroom was still steamy from what seemed like a recent shower. Maybe he had started working somewhere, but Uno didn’t ask, and Murakami didn’t offer any explanation.

On the third night of them missing each other, Uno noticed a slight gap in his desk drawer. Murakami hadn’t come back yet. Had he finally taken the last bill? Thinking this, Uno opened the now wrinkled bank envelope.

The 10,000-yen bill was still there—in fact, there were two bills. He counted them again and again: there were two. He laid the bills out on his desk and crossed his arms, deep in thought. The last time he checked, there had only been one bill. How had it multiplied? There was only one possibility—Murakami had put money back.

The doorbell rang. Panicking, Uno quickly stuffed the money back into the envelope and returned it to the drawer before running to the door.

When he opened the door, a soaked Murakami walked in, water dripping from his clothes. He stood there looking lost, not sure what to do. Uno handed him a towel, and Murakami asked, "Can I use the bath?"

"Sure. You must be freezing."

Murakami started undressing right there, not waiting for Uno’s response. Before Uno could fully grasp what was happening, Murakami had stripped completely and was carrying his wet clothes to the bathroom.

It wasn’t the first time Uno had seen Murakami naked. They had gone camping near the sea or a river back in their college days and changed into swimsuits in separate tents, but it had been a long time since Uno had seen Murakami’s body. It was just as beautiful as he remembered.

Unable to suppress the emotions surging inside him, Uno fled to his bedroom, diving under the sheets. He had often imagined being intimate with Murakami, but in those fantasies, he was always a woman, loved by Murakami as a woman.

Fantasy was safe. In his own head, he could control the narrative, but even there, he would borrow the body of a woman. That was how much Uno feared being rejected by Murakami, even in his imagination. Even if they were the last two people on earth, Uno knew Murakami wouldn’t want him because he was a man.

After handling his desires, he sighed. This was too much. Seeing Murakami naked right in front of him was overwhelming.

"Uno?"

Murakami’s voice startled him from the other side of the door. What did he want? Uno didn’t want to open the door, especially not right after what he had done. Surely it still smelled like—

Murakami didn’t knock or try to open the door. For a while, Uno could hear the TV from the living room, but it eventually fell silent.

He waited until he was sure Murakami was asleep before leaving the bedroom. The living room lights were dimmed to just above darkness, casting a faint glow around the room.

Murakami’s hair, still wet, was splayed across the pillow. Until recently, just breathing near him had been unbearable due to the stench, but now there was no odor at all.

Uno pulled out a foldable umbrella, a promotional item from some event, from the closet and left it on the table with a note: "Feel free to use this."

The next day, when Uno woke up, Murakami was still in the apartment. He sat on the sofa, staring blankly, without the TV on.

Since Uno had finished getting ready for work early, he decided to make some coffee. He felt Murakami’s gaze on him.

"Do you want some coffee?"

Murakami nodded, and Uno made two cups, serving them without sugar or milk—just like Murakami used to drink it in college.

"Here you go," Uno said, handing him the cup. Murakami took it with both hands and sipped quietly. Uno stood and drank half of his own cup. The room was dim, the rain from the night before still falling.

"Do you want to have oyakodon?" Murakami asked out of the blue. Uno didn’t understand why, but even though he wasn’t particularly craving it, he found himself saying, "Sure."

"If I make it, will you eat?"

Murakami spoke without looking at Uno.

"Yes."

It was almost time for Uno to leave for work. He didn’t want to be late. He placed his half-finished coffee in the sink. Murakami was still holding his cup with both hands.

"Are you not going out today?"

Murakami looked back at Uno with a somewhat apologetic expression and muttered, "It's raining."

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Uno had no idea when Murakami would make the oyakodon. It could be tonight, or it could be tomorrow. But since he wasn’t told explicitly when it would be, he didn’t buy any groceries on his way home that evening.

It seemed that the day had finally come. As soon as Uno opened the front door, the rich scent of soy sauce and dashi broth wafted through the air.

"I'm home," he called out, and Murakami, with his back turned, responded with a simple "Mm." After changing into his loungewear in the bedroom, Uno returned to the living room to find two bowls of oyakodon and cups of tea on the table.

Murakami sat on the right side, already eating. Uno sat across from him. Since Murakami had started staying with him, this was the first time they had sat at the table and eaten together like this.

"Thank you for the meal," Uno said, and Murakami nodded with another "Mm." With the TV off, Uno found himself focusing on eating, trying not to overthink the presence of the man across from him.

The oyakodon was rich in flavor, but it was delicious. He remembered that Murakami was a decent cook. During their camping trips, Murakami had often taken charge of the seasoning, whether it was for grilled meat, curry, yakisoba, or okonomiyaki, and it had always turned out well.

"You know," Murakami began, still looking down, "you should probably buy some salt."

"Was there none?"

"Nope. There was some sugar, though."

Murakami had already finished his bowl, and Uno found himself lagging behind. Even after he finished eating, Murakami didn’t move from his seat.

As soon as Uno was done, Murakami quickly cleared the table like an impatient waiter.

"I can wash my own dishes," Uno said, following him into the kitchen, but Murakami refused with a simple "It’s fine." As Murakami washed the dishes, Uno said, "It was really good, thank you," but he received no reply.

While Murakami tidied up, Uno took a shower. For the first time in a while, he filled the bathtub and soaked in the warm water. The fullness in his stomach and the comfort of the bath made him feel like he could cry. It was such a simple thing: having a meal made for you by someone you care about, eating together. And yet, it touched him deeply.

What should he do? He had intended to etch the image of the worst version of Murakami into his memory and move on, but instead, he was starting to feel something akin to happiness.

When Uno left the bathroom and went back to the living room, Murakami was lounging on the sofa like a cat after a meal, for once not wrapped up in a sheet as if hiding himself.

"If it rains," Murakami began, "I’ll cook something again."

Did this mean that every time it rained, he could look forward to this happiness? As Uno remained silent, Murakami’s expression gradually stiffened.

"...I’m looking forward to it," Uno said finally, and Murakami's tension seemed to melt away, his face relaxing into a soft smile.

"I’m not that good of a cook, though," Murakami said, and Uno found himself staring at a face he really liked. When Murakami called out, "Uno?" it snapped him out of his reverie, and he quickly mumbled, "Goodnight," before darting into the bedroom.

The TV was turned off, and the living room fell silent. Uno quietly opened the desk drawer. Inside the envelope were 25,000 yen. The amount had increased by 5,000 yen, and the bill was crumpled, as if it had been folded up and soaked in water.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

As the money in the envelope increased, it was as if the old Murakami was gradually returning. He began to talk more, which naturally led to longer conversations between them.

Uno found himself eagerly awaiting rainy days. It seemed like Murakami had taken on some sort of day labor, possibly at a construction site, and when it rained, he wouldn’t go to work. Instead, he would stay home and cook dinner.

The rainy days that used to feel so gloomy were now being rewritten with joyful memories. He began to feel like the happiest person in the world.

"What does a rice cooker mean to you?" Murakami asked out of the blue while they were eating curry that he had made. Uno wondered if he was being asked something philosophical and took a moment to think seriously.

"...I’m mentioning it now, because when I first cooked at your place, I wanted to make rice, so I pulled out the rice cooker, and there was still rice inside. It was hard as a rock, just about one serving."

"What? You’re kidding."

"Why would I lie about that?" Murakami sipped his tea.

"The power cord wasn’t there either, and I eventually found it in the cupboard above. I kept wondering what this rice cooker meant to you since you cooked rice and forgot about it."

"I’m sorry."

Murakami laughed. "You don’t need to apologize to me."

It seemed that Murakami wasn’t blaming him; he just wanted to share a funny story. But Uno couldn’t help but feel the need to explain.

"I moved out when I started university, and I thought I’d need a rice cooker, so I bought one. But then I realized that just having rice wasn’t enough unless you also had side dishes, and it felt like too much trouble..."

"You had a younger brother in technical college, didn’t you?"

It felt like a tiny needle had pricked his heart.

"No, that was Takechi. I have an older brother."

"Oh, right, Takechi. You remember things well."

Their conversation fell silent, as if Murakami might have recalled the debts he owed to the junior he had once been fond of. Murakami had borrowed money from Takechi, Kagami, and a few other friends. Uno wondered why Murakami had never reached out to him for money.

It was probably just a matter of priorities. He had approached the people he felt closest to first, and Uno’s name had been further down the list. Who Murakami chose to care for or love was his own decision. Feeling hurt over not being a top priority was entirely Uno’s own issue.

"Have you seen Kagami?" Murakami asked, looking down at his curry as he spoke. Uno hesitated, wondering whether to lie, but decided to be honest.

"Yeah, about two months ago."

Murakami took a long pause before muttering, "I see."

"I went to Kagami’s wedding reception."

Murakami’s head shot up in surprise, but then his expression quickly shifted into a forced, bitter smile before he looked down again.

"I see."

If Murakami hadn’t been forced to quit his prestigious job, if his parents hadn’t committed suicide, if he hadn’t spiraled into gambling, driven away his girlfriend, and borrowed money from his friends only to flee... then perhaps he would have been Kagami’s best man.

On impulse, Uno wanted to say, "Hinano got married too," as if it were just a passing comment. He wondered if Murakami knew.

In the end, it was because Murakami had lost the people who had mattered most to him—his girlfriend, his friends—that he ended up by Uno’s side. Murakami might regret it, but he had brought it upon himself.

"Have you ever gambled on pachinko?" Murakami asked. The spoon in Uno’s hand paused.

"No."

"...You should never start. It ruins your life."

It was a lesson Murakami had learned the hard way. Suddenly, Uno felt small and ashamed. What was he doing, trying to hurt a man who was already so broken?

"Okay," Uno replied.

The conversation fell silent, with only the faint sound of their spoons scraping the plates mixing with the sound of the rain.

Footnotes

0. Content warning: su*cide mention.

Previous TOC Next