Utsukushii Koto: Volume 1 - Part 4

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Even after they resumed emailing, Matsuoka and Hiromatsu didn’t see each other face to face. Hiromatsu didn’t say he wanted to meet again, either. Maybe he still remembered how, the last time he said “I want to see you,” Matsuoka had cut him off completely.

About a month had passed since Hiromatsu’s farewell party. It was a Friday night, and Matsuoka was at home exchanging short, chat-like emails with him. Unlike before, Hiromatsu now wrote about work too. He didn’t seem to be fitting in at the new workplace very well. More than once in their messages, he wrote things like, “I’m not very good at reading the room.”

Matsuoka suspected the issue wasn’t whether he was attentive or not—it was more likely that he simply didn’t belong in a technical research division to begin with. But he couldn’t exactly admit that he knew the internal politics of the company, so he had no choice but to stay quiet and listen.

It was painfully obvious from the tone of the emails how much Hiromatsu was blaming himself for the difficulties he was having with his new coworkers. His messages were filled with self-blame, and when he wrote—almost too earnestly—“I’m incompetent,” Matsuoka found it nearly unbearable.

If only Hiromatsu could redirect even a tiny bit of the shamelessness Fukuda possessed—just enough to shift the blame onto a mean-spirited boss or someone else—it might make things easier for him. But he wasn’t that kind of man. And that only made Matsuoka more frustrated on his behalf.

When the topic of work came up, Hiromatsu’s messages grew heavier and more depressing. Trying to lighten the mood, Matsuoka changed the subject with: “The weather’s supposed to be nice tomorrow.”

Hiromatsu replied: “Do you have any plans?”

“I’ll probably just laze around at home,” Matsuoka sent back.

A pause—then: “If you’re free, would you like to go out somewhere?”

Matsuoka inwardly winced. Damn.

He’d said he had no plans, so now it would be awkward to suddenly reply with, “Oh wait, something came up after all.”

He hesitated. If he declined, it would hurt Hiromatsu. But meeting him again while cross-dressed… it just didn’t feel natural anymore. He agonized over it.

After much deliberation, he finally sent:

“Where would you take me?”

It was the kind of message that meant he had decided to go.

Less than a minute later, a delighted reply came flying in.

“Is there anywhere you’d like to go? Any requests?”

Matsuoka answered:

“I’ll leave it up to you, Hiromatsu-san.”

After sending a final “Good night” message, Matsuoka sat deep in thought. They were meeting at ten the next morning. He’d probably be with Hiromatsu until evening. It would be the longest he’d ever spent dressed as a woman while in Hiromatsu’s company.

He worried—what if he accidentally spoke out loud? What if the wig slipped off?

But there was no use overthinking it now.

Pushing all those worries out of his head, Matsuoka went to bed early. Sleep deprivation was the enemy of clear skin. If his makeup didn’t go on right, it would be a disaster.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The next day, the weather forecast betrayed them completely—light rain had been falling since morning.

Matsuoka and Hiromatsu stood in a daze in front of the entrance to a massive theme park.

He had noticed, on the train there, that the ride was unusually empty for a Saturday. Even the crowd heading toward the gates was sparse. He’d assumed it was just the rain.

He never would’ve guessed the park was closed on a Saturday.

Matsuoka was surprised—but it was clear Hiromatsu was even more devastated. The moment he laid eyes on the sign reading “Closed Today,” he froze completely, as if he’d turned to stone.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve checked in advance…”

His voice was barely audible. Panicked, Matsuoka quickly wrote:

“It’s okay, don’t worry.”

As they walked back toward the station attached to the park, Hiromatsu kept his head down, saying almost nothing. And when he did speak, it was nothing but apologies. Watching him spiral into self-blame made it hard to bear.

On the way to the park, the train ride had been filled with cheerful conversation. Now, on the way back, silence hung between them. Matsuoka wracked his brain, trying to think of some way—any way—to cheer him up.

“Let’s play a game where you can become a king.”

When he showed Hiromatsu the note, the man finally lifted his gaze.

“We play rock-paper-scissors. Whoever wins gets to be king for the day. And whatever the king says, the other has to obey—no arguing allowed.”

Hiromatsu finally gave a small smile.

“If I’m the king, does that make you the queen?”

Matsuoka lifted his lightly clenched right fist to chest level.

“Already ready to play?”

Matsuoka nodded, and Hiromatsu raised his hand to match. In sync, they counted one-two-three and threw their hands.

Matsuoka won.

“Oh no—what shall I do, my queen?”

Hiromatsu asked playfully, grinning. Matsuoka wrote:

“Once we’re back at the other station, I want pasta. There’s a place I know. Can we go there?”

“Of course, my queen.”

The obedient servant gave a formal, dramatic bow.

“And after lunch, we’re going to a hair salon.”

Hiromatsu blinked as he read it. “A salon?”

Matsuoka smiled sweetly in reply—and told him nothing more.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

After eating pasta, Matsuoka took Hiromatsu to a stylish, modern-looking hair salon. He was a bit worried about whether they could get in without a reservation, but luckily, due to the rain, someone had canceled. They were able to get both a haircut and coloring.

Hiromatsu looked a little nervous, but Matsuoka was having a blast.

As Hiromatsu was led away to the shampoo station, looking like a hostage, Matsuoka gave him a small wave. While he was getting his hair washed, Matsuoka flipped through a hair catalog to choose a hairstyle and color. He settled on a dark brown—not too flashy—and a slightly shorter cut that gave more texture and movement at the ends.

While Hiromatsu sat stiffly in front of the mirror getting colored and trimmed, Matsuoka passed the time flipping through magazines, watching the rain outside, and observing Hiromatsu’s constantly worried expression.

After about two and a half hours, it was done.

Under the hands of a pro, Hiromatsu’s hair now had volume yet looked neat and polished. Compared to before, he looked at least 50% more attractive.

My instincts were right, Matsuoka thought. He’d always believed that if something could be done about the guy’s hair, he’d look much better—and it turned out to be true. On top of that, they’d even groomed his eyebrows, which made Matsuoka smile.

When Hiromatsu tried to ask about the cost, Matsuoka quickly wrote:

“I’m the queen today, remember? Don’t worry about it.”

Then he whisked Hiromatsu off to their next stop: a shopping mall.

They wandered into store after store, enjoying some window shopping. Even though both of them had good eyesight, they went into an eyewear shop and tried on glasses just for fun. Ignoring the clerk’s subtly chilly glance, they played around with frames.

A pair of sleek, narrow glasses suited Hiromatsu surprisingly well—just putting them on gave him an air of stylish sophistication. Matsuoka thought they’d be worth buying even as fashion glasses, but of course, Hiromatsu wasn’t the type to spend money on something just for fun.

Next, they stopped at a men’s clothing shop that specialized in casualwear. The prices weren’t outrageous, and they had a good variety. Matsuoka occasionally shopped there too.

There was something that had been bothering Matsuoka all day: Hiromatsu’s clothes.

Suits could make just about any man look decent. But casual clothes? They showed who you really were.

And Hiromatsu’s outfit, frankly, was not doing him any favors.

The checkered flannel shirt was thick, faded, and wrinkled. The T-shirt underneath was visibly worn out. And those beige cotton trousers—with pleats at the front and back—hung baggy and shapeless, completely destroying his silhouette. He’s lean, Matsuoka thought, so why hide it under pants meant for middle-aged guys? He’d look way better in something fitted.

He picked out a few shirts and jackets and held them up to Hiromatsu’s chest like a human mannequin. Eventually, he found a zip-up jacket in khaki—perfect for the season. Even Matsuoka wanted it for himself.

He paired it with a pair of dark-wash jeans and dragged Hiromatsu toward the fitting room.

“Would you like to try these on?” asked the store clerk.

Hiromatsu, flustered, stammered, “Uh, I…”

Matsuoka handed him the clothes with a smile.

“Just trying them on is okay, right?”

Seeing Hiromatsu’s reluctance, the clerk replied with a bright grin, “Of course.”

Three minutes later, Hiromatsu emerged from the fitting room.

He was tall to begin with—and the simple jeans made his legs look even longer. The jeans and jacket complemented each other well, giving off a polished, refined vibe.

“That looks really good on you,” the clerk said, taking the opportunity to shower him with praise.

Hiromatsu didn’t look displeased by the compliments either.

“I don’t own jeans, and this kind of jacket is a first for me… so I wasn’t sure at first, but…”

“If you don’t already have them, then why not use this chance?” the clerk encouraged. “Jeans are versatile all year round, and this jacket’ll serve you well outside the extremes of summer and winter.”

Hiromatsu turned to Matsuoka for his thoughts.

“How do I look?”

Matsuoka took Hiromatsu’s right hand and wrote: “You look amazing.”

The moment Hiromatsu read it, his face turned bright red.

“Do you like it?”

Matsuoka nodded enthusiastically.

“Then… I’ll take it.”

“Thank you very much,” the shop clerk said, bowing with a smile.

As Hiromatsu started to head back into the fitting room, Matsuoka stopped him. When he tilted his head in confusion, Matsuoka took his hand and wrote:

“Let’s go on a date just like this.”

Hiromatsu’s old clothes were folded into the shop’s paper bag, and they left together. Walking side by side, Matsuoka began to notice something strange—this time, it wasn’t just him being stared at. He could feel people’s eyes trailing after Hiromatsu too.

It wasn’t surprising. With a new hairstyle and clothes, Hiromatsu looked shockingly fresh and stylish. As they passed a mirrored storefront, their reflections appeared in the glass—walking side by side, they looked like a real couple.

Eventually, their stroll through the shopping mall came to an end. The rain hadn’t let up, and the idea of walking through it was unappealing. They ducked into a nearby building—mostly women’s clothing stores, but on the second floor, they found a cozy café with a nice atmosphere.

They chose a window seat and sat facing each other. Hiromatsu let out a soft breath.

“Sorry for dragging you around. You must be tired.”

Matsuoka showed him the note. Hiromatsu shook his head.

“No, I really enjoyed it.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling.

“I bought clothes I never would’ve tried otherwise. I feel like I discovered a new version of myself. It was fun.”

Matsuoka couldn’t help but hope this would spark a newfound interest in fashion for Hiromatsu. If he got into it, he’d definitely start attracting girls. He’d probably forget all about Yoko in no time. But even as he told himself that, there was a flicker of selfishness—a reluctance to hand over the stylish new Hiromatsu to some girl he didn’t know.

A child’s voice drew his attention. He turned to see a little girl, maybe three years old, walking down the aisle with an ice cream cone in one hand. She looked like a doll—maybe mixed-race, with light brown hair and snow-white skin.

She was so adorable that many people turned to look. Matsuoka was among them. Just then, right in front of their table, the girl dropped a pink bunny plushie. As she bent down to pick it up, she toppled forward, face-first, her ice cream smearing straight into the knee of Hiromatsu’s brand-new jeans.

She sat up, her face crumpling—and then burst into tears like a fire had been lit.

Matsuoka froze, unsure of what to do, and glanced around for her mother.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to cry.”

Hiromatsu stood and crouched beside the girl, gently patting her head. When that didn’t stop the tears, he effortlessly scooped her up in his arms, clearly used to it.

“Now then… where’s your mommy?”

He murmured as he looked around. At last, the young mother appeared, bowing deeply in apology as she took her daughter back.

Once they were gone, Hiromatsu took a wet napkin and began wiping the ice cream off the hem of his jeans. His jacket had gotten dirty too, from where her sticky hand had clung to his chest.

But the man himself didn’t seem the least bit bothered. “That little girl was so cute,” he said, grinning casually. He hadn’t even noticed the mess on his jacket.

Matsuoka, feeling it was too roundabout to explain in writing, simply stood up and started wiping down Hiromatsu’s chest with his own wet napkin.

Once the stain had faded, he looked up—and saw Hiromatsu’s face burning red again.

Just from Matsuoka getting that close. He really was such a pure-hearted guy, Matsuoka thought, like it was someone else’s business. Then he sat back down in his seat across from him.

“Thank you.”

Hiromatsu smiled, his face still flushed red.

“You’re really good with kids,” Matsuoka wrote and showed him the note.

“Not really…” Hiromatsu murmured as he ruffled the back of his freshly trimmed hair.

“My brother’s kid is about that age. When I visit home, I end up playing with him a lot. Kids that age are so pure—they end up healing you just by being around.”

“You’re a kind person, Hiromatsu-san.”

He read the note and let out a self-deprecating laugh.

“I’m not kind at all.”

Matsuoka hadn’t been teasing. He meant it sincerely, and couldn’t understand why Hiromatsu reacted that way. So he wrote another note:

“You helped me, too.”

Hiromatsu lowered his gaze after reading that.

“I only lent you my shoes. You paid me back.”

“Even so… you were the only one who spoke to me that day.”

Silence fell between them.

At that moment, Matsuoka bitterly regretted choosing to pretend he couldn’t speak. If only he could talk right now, he could press him, argue back, make things move more naturally.

“The first time I saw you… I didn’t say anything.”

He didn’t need to be told that. Matsuoka already knew.

“I was with coworkers, and when one of them called you a weird woman, I couldn’t say anything back. I pretended I didn’t see you. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I came back by myself. Still, it took a long time for me to work up the courage to speak to you.”

Hiromatsu looked at him.

“If I were really a kind person… I would’ve spoken to you the first time I saw you. I wouldn’t have hesitated or second-guessed myself. That’s why… I don’t think I’m kind.”

Matsuoka understood what he meant. He really did. And still—he felt furious.

“Are you trying to become a god or something?”

Hiromatsu blinked, caught off guard.

“God…?”

“Yeah. Think about it. Isn’t that normal? A stranger, some suspicious-looking woman crouched on the street—most people wouldn’t want to get involved. I wouldn’t, either. If I were in your shoes, I would’ve ignored me, no question.”

It was frustrating—how fast this could’ve been said with words, and yet he had to scrawl every sentence out by hand.

“You don’t know what might happen if you get involved. And still, you came over and spoke to me. That made me so happy. Whether it was the first time or the second time doesn’t matter—you don’t need to beat yourself up about that. Listening to you talk like that just makes me angry. It makes you sound like a hypocrite.”

As Hiromatsu read the note, his face gradually stiffened.

“I lie too. I can be petty. I look away when things get inconvenient. Do you look down on me for that?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

Matsuoka shook his head.

“Then why not be more honest? Say what you like, say what you hate. People are like that. Why can’t you just accept that?”

Hiromatsu lowered his head again.

Watching him shrink down like that, Matsuoka suddenly didn’t know why he was getting so worked up. Honestly, Hiromatsu had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t fair that someone who had helped him, someone who was wrestling with his own compassion, should be scolded like this.

After the silence lingered, a waitress approached and asked, “May I clear your table?”

The place had gotten busier. Hiromatsu turned to him and said, “Shall we go?”

Matsuoka nodded.

They stepped outside the café and stood by the exit of the shopping mall. Neither had plans from here on.

“Shall we head home?”

Hiromatsu said it quietly, and all Matsuoka could do was nod. They walked through the rain beneath the same umbrella. As Matsuoka followed the man ahead of him, he felt frustration gnawing away at his entire body.

He’s kind. He’s thoughtful. He’s sincere and pure and decent. So why… why did I say those things to him?

He searched for the root of his own behavior.

Take Fukuda, for example. Matsuoka never even said half of what he truly thought to him. If you said what you really felt to a selfish, emotionally detached man like that, you’d never survive professionally. The truth was, even if someone was awful, you could still get by as long as you knew how to handle them on the surface. That’s just how the world worked.

But what he’d written in that memo earlier—that was real. A truth that went beyond liking or disliking. He just… had to say it.

They arrived at the station and passed through the ticket gates. The stairs to the underground platforms diverged—one led to Hiromatsu’s line, the other to Matsuoka’s. Just before they reached the split, Hiromatsu stopped.

“Thank you for spending the day with me. I’m sorry it started out with such a mess.”

If Matsuoka hadn’t snapped at him at the end, maybe it could’ve ended as just a nice date.

Hiromatsu’s downcast expression, how he avoided looking directly at him—it gave Matsuoka the sinking feeling that the man thought he was being rejected again. He couldn’t let him go with that misunderstanding still hanging between them.

“I like kind people.”

Hiromatsu stared at the note Matsuoka handed him.

Matsuoka held out one more:

“And people who want to be kind.”

Hiromatsu looked up—and smiled, a little. His eyes shimmered with emotion, and Matsuoka felt a ripple deep in his chest.

“I can’t drive.”

The sudden confession was paired with a firm grip of both his hands.

“In college, I caused an accident. I hit a high schooler on a bike with my car. Thankfully, they weren’t seriously injured… but ever since then, I’ve been terrified of driving. Of how easily you can hurt someone. I became afraid of what it means to be the one responsible for that.”

Matsuoka couldn’t tell where this was going.

“I know I’m a coward. I don’t have hobbies. I suck at sports. I’m not great at talking, either. Every woman I’ve dated before has called me boring.”

Matsuoka wanted to tell him—That’s not your fault. The mistake was liking women who’d say something like that.

But he couldn’t speak.

“So… when I met you, and you couldn’t talk… I thought maybe someone like me—someone who’s not good with words—could still be accepted by you.”

The confession made Matsuoka flinch.

“You can think I’m terrible for saying that. That’s okay. I still want to tell you the truth.”

Hiromatsu’s grip tightened, painfully so.

“You may have a handicap, but you’re bright. You express your opinions clearly. You’re an independent, self-assured woman. You’re strong in a way I’m not.”

Matsuoka swallowed hard. He couldn’t look away from that serious gaze.

“I love you.”

The words made Matsuoka’s head spin.

“I know I’m putting you in a difficult position. But I want to say it anyway. I love you.”

His heart pounded. Even though he knew—knew those words were meant for Yoko Eto, not himself—it made something stir deep in his chest.

“I don’t want to let you go home.”

The words came in a whisper, aching with yearning.

“I don’t want anyone else to see you. I don’t want anyone else to touch you. I want to take you home. Keep you as something only I can have. A treasure just for me.”

And then—Hiromatsu embraced him. From the nape of the man’s neck, Matsuoka could smell the faint scent of hair product.

“Yoko-san.”

He looked up when his name was called. Even when he felt the kiss coming, he didn’t pull away. The thought that he should escape didn’t even cross his mind. The kiss was dry, soft, and tender—barely a brush, gentle and warm. Hiromatsu pulled back for a moment, then caressed Matsuoka’s cheek with such affection it almost hurt, and leaned in to kiss him again.

It was his first kiss in nearly a year. And honestly, it felt good. Wrapped in those warm arms, Matsuoka was completely entranced—until he felt fingers threading through his hair. The wig had shifted slightly backward. He snapped to his senses, shoved the man away with all his strength, and bolted down the stairs. He desperately wanted to fix the wig, but there was no mirror, and to make matters worse, Hiromatsu came chasing after him.

“Don’t run away, Yoko-san.”

He couldn’t run fast in heels, and in the middle of the platform, he was caught.

“I understand if you’re angry. It was sudden. I’m sorry,” Hiromatsu said, and Matsuoka kept his head bowed, trying to hide the edge of the wig that had slipped out of place.

“But I really do love you.”

I get it, just let me go already, he thought, struggling to pry himself free. But he couldn’t overpower the strength of someone who was completely serious. He could feel the train approaching in the distance. Bracing himself, Matsuoka looked up. Staring straight into that pitiful, clumsy face, he leaned in and kissed him back. Their dry, gentle lips touched once more. Hiromatsu trembled slightly, and the grip on Matsuoka’s hands loosened.

Matsuoka gave a small, ambiguous nod—part bow, part goodbye—then slipped out of his grasp and dashed onto the train behind him. Hiromatsu didn’t follow. He simply stood frozen, staring as Matsuoka vanished into the distance.

The moment he found himself alone on the train, a burning shame crept up his neck. No matter how caught up in the moment he’d been, he never imagined he’d kiss someone in such a public space—right on the platform. Someone had probably seen. Just imagining it was unbearable. He moved two cars down in a flustered attempt to escape it.

His cheeks felt hot. The kiss replayed again and again in his mind, each time making his heart pound. It felt strange—like he was falling apart—and that scared him. Then came the sound of an incoming email. He knew, without even looking, that it was from Hiromatsu. And yet he was afraid to read it, even as a strange impatience bubbled inside him. Fingers trembling, he took out his phone.

“I want to see your face.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an excuse. It was just Hiromatsu’s honest feeling, laid bare. Matsuoka didn’t know how to reply. He returned home without responding, collapsed onto the living room sofa, and stared blankly at the wall.

The theme park that had been closed. The silly king-and-queen game. Their argument at the café. The impulsive kiss at the station. All of it swirled chaotically in his mind. It wouldn’t leave him alone. But none of it felt bad. If anything, it felt the opposite.

He knew this feeling. Being preoccupied with someone, not being able to get them out of his head, swinging between joy and sudden sadness, being emotionally volatile... It was a feeling he remembered well.

If this was what it meant to be in love, then… but they were both men. Matsuoka gave a self-deprecating smile. He’d probably just been confused after hearing "I love you" so many times. If he didn’t think that, then he couldn’t make sense of the feelings churning inside him.

When the notification sound for a new message rang again, he flinched so hard it surprised even him. He scrambled to check it.

“Any words are fine. Please just write something back.”

The desperation poured through the screen. Hiromatsu never broke his own rule—he never sent a second message without waiting for a reply. But now even that was slipping. Matsuoka wanted to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t say, “There is no Yoko Eto. The woman you’ve just confessed everything to… is actually a man.”

He sat in silence, arms crossed, staring at his phone—and then the third message arrived.

“I’m dying of regret.”

The desperate message from Hiromatsu struck Matsuoka as—strangely—adorable. There was no other word that fit. Just... unbearably cute.

“Today was…”

He typed that much, then deleted it. Typed it again: “Today was…”

And then, just to finish that short, simple message, it took him nearly thirty minutes.

“Today was a bit of a surprise, but I had fun. Good night.”

The moment he sent it, he felt like he’d done something he couldn’t take back. But there was no lie in what he’d written.

He showered, removed his makeup, and stepped out of the world of “the woman.”

And yet the feelings from earlier still clung to him. He kept touching his lips without thinking. It was ridiculous.

He didn’t feel settled at all. It was like knowing and not knowing the reason why, all at once. He went to bed early, but couldn’t sleep. He turned over again and again, restless with tension.

When he finally drifted into a light, fragile sleep, he dreamt something strange.

He was simply standing face to face with Hiromatsu.

They weren’t speaking. Just standing there, silent.

Matsuoka was himself—dressed as a man. Even so, he could feel the love and longing Hiromatsu held for him.

It didn’t disgust him. He wasn’t repulsed.

Instead, the thought crossed his mind: Would I sleep with this man? If he asked… would I?

He found himself wanting to see what kind of body Hiromatsu had.

When Hiromatsu held him, his broad, solid chest had felt incredibly comforting.

...Even in the dream, he couldn’t help thinking: This man would be gentle in bed too, wouldn’t he?

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Even though he said he wanted to see him, Matsuoka didn’t go. He knew all too well that they shouldn't meet again. And yet, every day, he received heat-hazed emails from Hiromatsu that made his chest ache, made him feel like he too might be in love. Is this love? No, just a momentary lapse of judgment, he would tell himself—but the thoughts kept swaying back and forth in his heart. He never knew which feeling was the truth.

On the morning of the third week since their date, just after the usual wake-up call, an email arrived from Hiromatsu.

“I’ll be waiting at seven o’clock tonight, in front of the clock tower outside Shimoda Station on the Hiwasa Subway Line. If you don’t want to come, that’s fine. I just can’t bear to sit still and do nothing.”

All through work that day, Matsuoka couldn’t stop thinking about the message. He hadn’t planned to go. But when he imagined Hiromatsu standing there waiting the whole time, it was almost unbearable. So he sent a reply: “I have plans today, so I won’t be able to make it there.” It was a gentle lie, the kind that might convince Hiromatsu not to wait. He sent the message at six p.m., well before the meeting time.

After finishing dinner out, Matsuoka boarded the train. Still, no reply came. An uneasy feeling took root. He got off at Shimoda Station. It was already past 7:30 p.m.

Sure enough, his premonition was spot-on—Hiromatsu was still standing there in front of the clock tower. Hiding behind a pillar, Matsuoka sent another message:

“I’m out having dinner with a friend. I’m sorry I can’t make it to our meeting spot today. I’ll email you again once I’m home.”

He saw Hiromatsu pull his phone from his suit pocket just a moment after the message was sent. Good, Matsuoka thought. Now he’ll give up and head home. But even after reading the email, Hiromatsu didn’t move.

I told him I couldn’t come. I emailed him twice. So why is he still standing there? Matsuoka’s irritation flared, and he stamped his heel on the pavement.

Maybe I should just walk over to him like this. Right now, tell him everything. That Yoko Eto doesn’t exist. That it was me all along. It would be a relief. He didn’t care anymore if Hiromatsu thought he was a cross-dressing weirdo.

He stepped out from the station and slowly approached the man under the clock tower. Hiromatsu glanced his way once, briefly, then quickly lowered his gaze again. Matsuoka had meant to confront him head-on, but when the moment came, he couldn’t face him. Instead, he circled to the opposite side of the clock tower and pretended to wait for someone too.

I’m just waiting for the right timing, he told himself. Should I start with “Good evening”? Or maybe “Nice to meet you”? He agonized over the choice, though he knew deep down he was just buying time.

Just go home already. Yoko Eto isn’t coming. He willed the thought at Hiromatsu’s back again and again from behind the clock tower, but the man didn’t move.

Then something soft hit his cheek. Rain. As he looked up at the sky, the drops grew heavier. People around him picked up their pace, running for shelter. Matsuoka hurried back toward the station entrance.

Still, Hiromatsu remained under the clock tower. Even as the rain came down harder and harder, he stayed there, head bowed. He didn’t need to stand out in the open like that—he could easily see the clock tower from the shelter of the station entrance—but he didn’t budge.

Matsuoka couldn’t grab his hand and pull him into cover. He wasn’t dressed as a woman. He wasn’t Yoko Eto.

Don’t show me this, Matsuoka thought, pained. His chest throbbed sharply, as if crushed beneath a weight of guilt—or something else he couldn’t name.

He sent another email: “Please go home now.”

A few moments later, Hiromatsu, who had been frozen in place until then, suddenly began looking around in panic. He wandered around the clock tower, aimless and distressed, like a lost dog circling again and again. After about thirty minutes of this, he finally stepped into the station. As he passed in front of Matsuoka, soaked and pitiful, his head hung low, his face looked pale—like someone halfway to death.

Only after Hiromatsu disappeared from sight did Matsuoka shed a few tears. Maybe I really do love that clumsy, hopeless man, he thought. Maybe I truly love him.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Matsuoka walked through the pouring rain without an umbrella, soaking wet. Perhaps because he wasn’t even running, he could feel the stares of passersby growing sharper with each step. But he didn’t care about their curious glances. It wasn’t as if putting himself in the same “soaked” condition as Hiromatsu would change anything—but he had become so steeped in self-punishment that he couldn’t stop himself.

By the time he arrived home at his apartment, the cold rain had washed away his body heat, and a fine shiver had begun to set in. He placed his phone—still powered off—on the table and shut himself away in the bathroom.

Even in the bath, his head remained bowed. Over and over, he thought of the man standing in the rain. What should he have done? Was there anything else he could’ve done in that moment? Was it really not Hiromatsu’s fault for stubbornly waiting there, even though he’d said he wouldn’t go?

No answers came. He got out of the bath still trapped in his gloom. As he toweled off his hair and returned to the living room, the thing on the table caught his eye whether he liked it or not. He had powered it off to escape—from confronting what he didn’t want to face.

I’m not the one at fault. Repeating that to himself, he picked up the phone. Just as he expected, a message from Hiromatsu awaited him once it powered on.

"If you really were there, then why didn’t you show yourself to me?"

He had clearly said he wouldn’t go. It was Hiromatsu’s own choice to wait, and Matsuoka didn’t feel like he should be blamed for that.

"If I’m a burden to you, if you don’t want to see me, please say so clearly. If you tell me you hate me, I promise I’ll never message you again."

The options were laid out plainly: continue, or end it. He considered just replying I hate you and sending it. That way, Hiromatsu would never contact him again—just like he’d promised.

Even if their connection ended now, he could always approach him again as Yosuke Matsuoka instead. It wasn’t that he hated him. In fact, precisely because he didn’t, because he knew it would hurt Hiromatsu to hear it, he began composing a lie: I still can’t forget the person I’m in love with.

But his fingers froze before pressing send. If he sent this, it really might be the end. That very thought made him hesitate—and in the end, he couldn’t send it at all.

Matsuoka was starting to lose sight of whether this dragging-on romance was truly for Hiromatsu’s sake—or just for his own.

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