Goodnight, See You Tomorrow: Chapter 1

While you may already be familiar with these terms, I’ve provided their English definitions for those who may not be. I’ve also changed the name order to First and Last, rather than the Last and First order used in the original Japanese text.

1. さん (san): This is a general, respectful suffix used to address or refer to someone. It's similar to "Mr.," "Mrs.," or "Ms." in English. It's commonly used for people of all ages and social statuses in both formal and informal contexts.

2. 君 (kun): This suffix is often used for addressing younger males, or in a more familiar or casual setting. It can be used with people of the same or lower status, and it's commonly used among friends, students, or in professional settings where there is a clear hierarchy (like between a superior and a subordinate). 

Content warning: This novel contains descriptions of explicit sexual content. I will not be adding a trigger warning to each chapter with graphic content, so please consider this a general warning.

TOC Next

They say that when you're too surprised, your mind goes blank, but that's not true. It just stops thinking. The words said to you and the situation you're in remain intact in your head.

"Tsugumi, are you listening?"

Shinjin peered at the unmoving Tsugumi, concerned, like looking at a stone by the roadside.

The sofa that Shinjin and Tsugumi were sitting on had just been replaced last autumn. It had gone far over budget, but Shinjin insisted on it, saying it was high-quality and would last a long time. Only six months had passed since then. And now, being asked to break up—what could that possibly mean?

"Why?"

That was all Tsugumi could manage to say at last.

"I want children."

Tsugumi blinked. As if triggered by that motion, the halted thoughts began to move again. But they were so chaotic that trying to calm them down proved futile.

Looking around aimlessly, there was nothing in sight that seemed capable of rescuing Tsugumi. The lover who always helped was now standing helplessly on the opposite shore, watching Tsugumi drown.

"...Even if you say something like that out of the blue..."

"It's not sudden. I've thought about it for a long time."

"For a long time?"

Instinctively, Tsugumi questioned him. Even though they had bought a new sofa last autumn? Even though just last month they talked about going to a botanical garden two stations away? Even though last week Shinjin had brought back souvenirs from a business trip? Had Shinjin been thinking about breaking up all this time while they lived peacefully without quarrels?

"But isn't the issue with children something we knew from the start?"

It's common knowledge that two men can't have birth children.

"People's thoughts change between youth and now."

"That's something you say only now...?"

"It's not because I dislike you, Tsugumi."

That faint hope silenced Tsugumi's urge to press further.

"I've been with you for ten years, and we've lived together for nine. To me, you're more than a lover—you're like family. There's no way I'd break up over simply liking or disliking you."

The strength in Shinjin's tone was a relief. If he didn’t dislike him, maybe there was still room for reconsideration. Tsugumi clung to that like a fool, finding a tiny piece of driftwood in a raging sea.

"If you don’t dislike me, then—"

"But that's a separate issue from the matter of children."

"Why?"

Shinjin frowned. It startled Tsugumi.

"You can't give birth, can you?"

It was so obvious that Tsugumi forgot to be angry.

"...Well, I'm a man now, just like I was then and will be forever."

When they started dating, Tsugumi was a man. Because Tsugumi was a man, Shinjin, who was gay, could fall in love with him. And now, because he was a man, Shinjin was saying it wouldn’t work. The self-serving reasoning left Tsugumi more bewildered than angry.

"You're being unfair, Shinjin."

"I know."

"You don't. Because saying something like this leaves me with no way to respond. Gay couples—problems like these are things we reconcile ourselves to from a young age. We come to terms with them before finding a partner. To bring it up only now—"

"You don't understand, Tsugumi."

He cut Tsugumi off, irritation clear in his voice.

"Unlike you, who debuted as a writer in your twenties and spends all your time holed up at home working, I’m a salesman who meets countless people every day. Now I'm 37, and at this age, people ask me, ‘Do you have kids?’ like it’s a greeting. My coworkers from the same year at the company almost all have kids. At drinking parties, it’s all about kids, and they say, ‘What about you?’ Each instance is small, but when you hear it over and over, it starts to feel like you’re less of a person, and it gets exhausting."

Shinjin's words came faster and faster.

"I feel bad for my parents, too. I’m their only son, and they’re happy talking about how so-and-so next door just had a baby, or how their grandchild’s already in kindergarten. They never pressure me directly, but seeing them like that hurts in a way you wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t—"

Shinjin abruptly fell silent.

"...Sorry, I went too far."

"It's fine."

Tsugumi averted his eyes. Tsugumi didn’t have parents. His mother had passed away shortly after giving birth to him, and his father had succumbed to illness during Tsugumi’s college years. He had no ties with either side of the family, so he truly didn’t understand the kind of pressure Shinjin described. But that didn’t mean he felt at ease.

"Please, try to understand."

"I can’t. I have my own feelings too."

"This isn’t about feelings."

"What?"

Tsugumi tilted his head.

"If this isn’t a conversation about feelings, then what is it about?"

"It’s about children... and how I need to act quickly because of my age."

"So, what you’re saying is, you’re going to get married and have children?"

Shinjin didn’t answer. Slowly, like a stain spreading, anger seeped into Tsugumi.

How could he say that here, at the moment of breaking up with someone he had spent ten years with? But Tsugumi also knew—after all these years together—that Shinjin wouldn’t budge once he had made up his mind. He was like that with the sofa; when he wanted something, he had to have it immediately. A man as impatient as a child. He would pour his heart into what he loved for as long as he loved it, but the moment he found something better, his affection would shift in an instant. The level of Tsugumi’s sighs rose with a mix of frustration and resignation.

"Children aren’t things. You can’t just discard them when you grow bored."

"I know."

"You don’t."

"But I’ve already decided."

Suddenly, Shinjin stood up. Without even glancing at Tsugumi, he walked to the bedroom. Hesitant, Tsugumi followed, only to find Shinjin pulling a suitcase from the closet and packing his belongings.

"...What are you doing?"

"We can’t live together in this situation."

"I haven’t agreed to any of this yet."

"But I can’t wait anymore."

"Wait anymore? This is all news to me tonight!"

Even as they spoke, Shinjin continued packing, heading for the entrance with his luggage.

"I’ll keep paying the rent for the apartment, so you don’t need to worry about that. But I’d like you to find a new place as soon as you can. Let me know once you’ve made arrangements."

Was he implying not to contact him otherwise?

"Shinjin."

"What?"

When he turned around, Tsugumi couldn’t say anything.

Rent? How can you think about something so practical at a time like this?

Ah, it’s because he’s the one who decided to leave. Shinjin had had time to think. But Tsugumi had no such luxury. And here was Shinjin, relentlessly pushing only his side of the story onto someone already at their breaking point. Isn’t that unfair?

There were so many things Tsugumi wanted to say, too many to put into words. Even though he couldn’t imagine anything worse than this moment, he was terrified that saying something might make things even worse. It’s such a contradiction.

"Well, I’m going now."

As if unable to bear the silence, Shinjin left.

Standing alone on the other side of the closed door, Tsugumi simply stood there, dazed.

He had met Shinjin at 25, spent ten years together, nine of them living as partners. And now, in a single day, his lover had brought up breaking up, refused any real discussion, and walked out. Tsugumi felt like a corpse left on the roadside, stabbed in the back without warning, abandoned without even the dignity of a cry for help.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

“Sorry, I’m having trouble making progress.”

Even though the person on the other end couldn’t see him, Tsugumi bowed his head while holding his phone. The novel slated for next month’s issue of Shinpa was due today, but he had barely made it halfway through.

“Are you stuck on something? The planning meeting seemed to go so well.”

Nakanishi, the editor Tsugumi had worked with for the past eight years, asked gently. Nakanishi never pressured him at times like this; he understood that the more rushed Tsugumi felt, the slower his writing became. But Tsugumi also knew that Nakanishi must be worried behind the scenes, which only made him feel guiltier.

“...It’s not really that.”

Nakanishi knew Tsugumi was gay and that he lived with Shinjin, but even so, Tsugumi found it hard to admit he was on the verge of missing a deadline because of relationship trouble.

“I’m really sorry. I’ll have something ready by early next week, somehow.”

“All right. If you’re feeling stuck, let me know anytime. We’ll figure it out together.”

“Thank you.”

Tsugumi bowed his head again before ending the call.

He sighed and turned to face his computer, placing his fingers on the keyboard. Then he caught sight of his left hand, and his heart skipped a beat. He still wasn’t used to seeing his ring finger bare. For nine years, there had always been a ring there. Whenever he saw his unadorned finger, he instinctively thought, Where did it go?—only to remember.

The wrist attached to his slender hand showed the faint outline of a rounded bone. He’d always been on the thin side, but skipping meals lately had made him even thinner. Sometimes at night, when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he looked so ghostly it scared him.

The bangs that hung in his eyes were annoying too. He had been meaning to get them trimmed, but after breaking up with Shinjin, the thought of doing anything about them felt like too much trouble. He lightly touched the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Tsugumi, I think your hair looks better when it’s on the longer side.”

The memory of Shinjin’s words came suddenly. At the time, Tsugumi had been surprised. He had always had a gentle, quiet face as a child, paired with fine, limp hair. When he grew it out, the strands clung together, making him look forlorn. He had said as much, and Shinjin had laughed, leaning in closer.

“Your nape is so delicate and beautiful—I don’t want anyone but me to see it.”

Shinjin had whispered this in Tsugumi’s ear, as if sharing a secret. It had been at the very start of their relationship, back when...

No, I can’t think about this right now.

Shaking his head, Tsugumi turned back to his computer. In the stillness of the room, he waited for the words to come to him. But they didn’t. No matter how long he sat, not a single word surfaced. It was as if everything inside him had been wiped clean.

What was he going to do? He had already missed the initial deadline. There was no way he could make the new one by early next week in this state.

It had been a month since Shinjin had left. He didn’t answer calls anymore. Emails received curt replies, but only about practical matters like moving or their shared belongings. Nothing emotional, not a single word about what had happened between them. The past month had been a slow, grinding realization that there was no room left for discussion.

Yet life moved forward regardless. Deadlines still loomed, and with no hope of reconciliation, Tsugumi had to find a new place to live. There were so many things to think about, so many tasks piled high before him. He didn’t know where to start. And in the cracks between them, the weightless form of scattered characters drifted aimlessly.

a, ka, sa, ta, na.

chi, ri, nu, ru, wo, wa, ka.

The characters didn’t form sentences, only fragments. All Tsugumi could do was follow them with his eyes, adrift in his own haze.

Tsumugi had won Shinpa’s new writer’s prize at the age of twenty-seven, making his literary debut. It was the only prize he had ever received, and he hadn’t had a major hit since.

His writing style avoided big events, focusing instead on nuanced emotional portrayals. He had a small but dedicated following. But he was an infamously slow writer, and his income remained low. Even so, he had been able to quit his office job and take the time to write novels to his satisfaction, all thanks to Shinjin.

“Don’t worry about the living expenses, Tsugumi. Just write the stories you want to write.”

Whenever Tsugumi hit a wall with his manuscripts, Shinjin would often say that.

I was leaning on him too much, wasn’t I? Tsugumi thought.

The reason Shinjin gave for their breakup had seemed cruel at the time, and even now, if taken alone, Tsugumi couldn’t fully accept it. But the split had also made him realize how much he had been relying on Shinjin. When you separate the pluses and minuses, when you break down a relationship into its individual parts, it’s never just one person’s fault.

So when had the balance started to tip toward the negative?

Even after ten years together, Tsugumi hadn’t noticed the change in Shinjin’s feelings.

It felt as if the past ten years had been deleted in an instant, like an inexplicable error wiping out everything at once.

Tsugumi had met Shinjin at a company drinking party after graduating from college. Struggling to keep up with the rapid pace of the conversation, Tsugumi had spent most of the time simply nodding along. At some point, his eyes met Shinjin’s at a neighboring table several times. When Tsugumi, tipsy and unsteady, went to the restroom, Shinjin had followed and helped steady him. That was when Shinjin handed him his business card. Later, Shinjin admitted it wasn’t by chance—they had crossed paths because Tsugumi was exactly his type, and he had deliberately approached him.

The computer screen dimmed into sleep mode, jolting Tsugumi back to the present.

He had been thinking about Shinjin again. Time was slipping by, empty and unproductive, while he got no work done.

The relentless ticking of the clock in the silent room weighed on him, threatening to crush him under a suffocating mix of anxiety and loneliness. Unable to bear it, Tsugumi fled the apartment. I can’t think about anything else today. Maybe I’ll just drink. He wasn’t a strong drinker, but sometimes it was easier to lose himself in a haze.

Walking through the familiar streets at dusk, he passed by a group of cheerful middle schoolers chatting happily. The sight made him realize: Oh, right, I spoke to Nakanishi today. Lately, days often passed without Tsugumi exchanging a single word with anyone. Sometimes the only sound of his voice came from brief acknowledgments to supermarket cashiers—“Yes” or “Thanks”—which hardly counted as conversation. By comparison, today had been better.

Even when he was living with Shinjin, life had often been quiet. Shinjin’s work kept him busy and out late. There were days when their only exchanges were “Good morning,” “Have a good day,” “Welcome home,” and “Good night.” But back then, Tsugumi hadn’t felt this aching loneliness. Shinjin’s presence had filled the house, even if he wasn’t always physically there.

The mounting laundry, the sink filled with dishes for two—those things crept up on him when he let his guard down. Since Shinjin had taken on more of the financial burden, Tsugumi had handled the household chores and meals in return. Their life had felt like that of a married couple.

“Since it’s getting late, how about pizza tonight?”

A passing voice caught on the wind made Tsugumi turn his head. He stopped in his tracks, taking in the scene before him: a young mother and father walking hand in hand with their child, framed against a street painted yellow and red by the sunset. It was just an ordinary family, an unremarkable moment in their lives.

And yet, that simple image carved deep into his chest.

Standing motionless at the edge of the street, Tsugumi felt a coldness seep into him, slow and unrelenting. He had no parents, no relatives. Until recently, Shinjin had been like family. Now, that was gone too.

I really am alone... he thought.

A faint imaginary sound buzzed in his ears, like the sharp rip of a single sheet torn from a letter pad. Thin, weightless, unattached to anything—Tsugumi felt as if he had become something like that.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The manuscript wasn’t finished in time, so Tsumugi apologized profusely to Nakanishi, who managed to adjust the publication schedule. This time, things worked out, but if a struggling writer like Tsumugi kept missing deadlines, it was only a matter of time before the work dried up. The image of slowly sliding into obscurity loomed in his mind.

“Well, I’ll be in touch again.”

Leaving the real estate office, Tsugumi found himself instinctively gazing downward.

Barely within the twenty-three wards. The apartment was far from the station, but there was a park nearby, and above all, the rent was cheap. Tsumugi didn’t have any extravagant habits, and his easygoing personality made it seem like a livable neighborhood.

—But a guarantor…

Renting a place required a joint guarantor. Ideally, it would be a family member—someone with a steady income. Tsumugi had no such relative. To make matters worse, his profession as an unsuccessful writer with unstable earnings made real estate agents hesitant.

He could pay a service fee and go through a guarantor company, which seemed like the only option. It had been two months since Shinjin left. As promised, the rent continued to be deposited into the account, but it didn’t sit right with Tsugumi, so this month he had paid half himself.

Even without being able to write, expenses continued to pile up. And to keep living, he had to spend. How much longer will this slump last? Or... maybe I’ll never write again. The thought sent a chill through him. Just then, something soft and warm brushed against his leg. A cat. It looked up at Tsugumi with vivid blue eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Tsugumi crouched down, tilting his head. Its long white and gray fur looked well-groomed, and its small, floppy ears were adorable. Likely a Scottish Fold.

The cat, with an air of aloofness, placed one paw lightly on Tsugumi’s knee. It was as though it were saying, You may proceed. Smiling faintly, Tsugumi gently held the paw. At that moment:

“Stay just like that.”

A hushed voice broke in. Looking up, Tsugumi saw a young man in a polo shirt and work pants standing nearby.

“Please, just stay like that,” he said, pointing at the cat as he approached slowly and cautiously. Probably the owner.

As the man drew near, the cat sensed him and turned to look. In a flash, it leapt into Tsugumi’s chest, avoiding the man’s outstretched hands. Startled, Tsugumi found himself standing face-to-face with the man. Even though Tsugumi was slim, he stood at 178 cm (5’10), and the man was even taller.

“MuuMuu, come here.”

The man extended his hand toward the cat, but it responded with a sharp, hissing growl that seemed to slice through the air. Clearly, attempting to grab it would result in bloodshed. With a resigned sigh, the man stepped back and gave Tsugumi a sheepish look.

“Sorry, but could you escort her home? It’s just around the corner.”

“Oh, uh, sure. I don’t mind.”

Still cradling the cat, Tsugumi walked alongside the man. True to his word, the cat’s home was just a short distance away, barely a two-minute walk. As they arrived, a young woman with a fresh, makeup-free face hurried out of the house.

“MuuMuu, thank goodness. You’re safe.”

The cat cast a fleeting, reluctant glance back at Tsugumi before settling quietly into the woman’s arms. The woman handed a thin envelope and a bakery bag to the man, bowing and exchanging thanks with him. For some reason, Tsugumi found himself bowing as well.

“I’m sorry for taking up your time,” the man said as they left the woman’s house.

“Here, as thanks—”

The man pulled the envelope he had received from the woman out of his pocket, and Tsugumi caught a glimpse of cash inside.

“Oh, no, no, that’s really not necessary. It was just around the corner.”

Tsugumi made a small bow and started to walk away, but the man quickly stepped in front of him.

“Then at least take this. The bread from this place is amazing.”

He held out the bakery bag.

“No, honestly, I only held the cat for a moment.”

“But if you hadn’t been there, MuuMuu might’ve run off farther or, worse, gotten into an accident. She’s not used to being outside and isn’t exactly quick on her feet in emergencies.”

“Oh, that’s... yeah, that would’ve been scary.”

Tsugumi found himself agreeing without thinking.

“Right? Oh, hey, why don’t we eat this together? It’s such a nice day out.”

The man lifted the bag and gestured toward the park across the street with his eyes.

Normally, Tsugumi would have hesitated—he wasn’t the type to interact easily with strangers. But he found himself nodding. Perhaps it was because he’d been feeling so lonely for so long.

The man started walking ahead, slightly to the side. The soft spring light illuminated his profile as Tsugumi followed.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

“Tsugumi Endou... A beautiful name. It means to ‘proclaim beauty,’ doesn’t it?”

Sitting side by side on a park bench, the man handed Tsugumi his business card.

“Kouya-san, you’re a handyman?”

The card bore the name Sakutaro Kouya, printed above the tagline, Handling errands of all kinds, from shopping to moving. Searching for runaway pets was apparently a common request, and MuuMuu had been one of those cases.

“Though I’m honestly terrible with animals,” Sakutaro said, offering a sheepish smile. He looked quite a bit younger than Tsugumi—probably in his late twenties. His strikingly handsome features were softened by his calm, cool eyes, keeping him from appearing too flashy. Watching Sakutaro open the bakery bag with neatly trimmed nails, Tsugumi thought, His smile gives him such a gentle look.

“This is delicious,” Tsugumi said, biting into a rye sandwich stuffed with roasted chicken.

“This bakery is famous locally. It’s run by a British couple.”

“Oh, the blueberry jam has that kind of vibe,” Tsugumi remarked, peeling back the bread slightly. The fruit’s sweetness perfectly complemented the savory chicken.

“I love combinations like this too. Like duck with marmalade sauce, or sweet-and-sour pork with pineapple. My grandfather always grumbles, ‘I don’t like stuff like that,’ though.”

“Older folks don’t usually go for it.”

“He’s into modern things otherwise, though. Even the design of his apartment...”

“Apartment?”

“My grandfather runs one. It’s sort of halfway between an apartment and a boarding house. The rooms are small, just eight tatami mats each, but they’ve got these half-circle stained glass windows and all sorts of unnecessary flourishes because of his hobbies. He’s the landlord, but he fell in the garden, broke a bone, and is in the hospital now. He’s eighty, so recovery is slow. In the meantime, I’ve been handling things as the property manager...”

“Are there any vacant rooms?”

The question slipped out before Tsugumi realized it.

“Huh?”

“I’m looking for a place to live. I have work, but it’s not a company job. I don’t have any family or relatives who could be guarantors, but I promise I’ll never miss the rent. I don’t have any debts, either.”

Tsugumi’s words came out in a rush. Seeing Sakutaro blink at him, slack-jawed, he snapped back to reality. What am I saying to someone I’ve just met?

“Sorry, I don’t know why I...”

“No, it’s fine. You just caught me off guard for a moment. We don’t care much about your job here. There are company employees, but also people working night shifts or part-time. I mean, even I’m a handyman. So, uh, what do you do, Endou-san?”

Tsugumi hesitated for a moment. Talking about his profession always made him uncomfortable. When he mentioned being a writer, people often reacted with a starry-eyed idealization, asking for his pen name. But most had never heard of an author with an initial print run of just 8,000 copies, and sharing the truth only left both sides feeling awkward.

“...I write novels,” he mumbled, his voice shrinking.

“You’re a writer? That’s amazing! What name do you write under?”

Here it comes. But in this situation, there was no avoiding it.

“...Tsugumi Itou.”

As expected, the name was met with silence.

“Tsugumi Itou?” Sakutaro repeated.

“Oh, you don’t know it, do you? That’s fine. I don’t sell well at all,” Tsugumi said, trying to laugh it off. But when their eyes met, Sakutaro’s serious expression stopped him short.

“Tsugumi Itou?”

Sakutaro’s brow furrowed as though in frustration. He asked again, almost angrily.

“...Uh, yes?”

As Tsugumi faltered, Sakutaro abruptly looked down, his ears turning faintly red.

“Ah, s-sorry. I just... I don’t know how to respond right now,” Sakutaro muttered, his voice muffled.

Tsugumi watched, baffled, as Sakutaro fidgeted. Finally, the man raised his face, his eyes meeting Tsugumi’s with unexpected intensity.

“I never thought I’d meet you here like this. Sorry, it’s just... I’ve been a fan of Tsugumi Itou—of yours—for a long time.”

Stunned, Tsugumi could only stare as Sakutaro delivered this revelation, his earnest gaze fixed on him.

“The first book I read was Yoru, Hikaru (The Night, It Shines). It’s still my favorite.”

“Wait, that one?”

Tsugumi was surprised. Yoru, Hikaru was one of his heaviest works, with a clear divide between those who loved it and those who disliked it. He hadn’t expected it to resonate with someone like this friendly, approachable man sitting before him.

The story followed a man with a pathological obsession with cleanliness. It began with him dropping out of swimming lessons in elementary school because he couldn’t bear to step on wet tiles. As he grew older, the list of things he couldn’t touch expanded until, by the end, he was confined within a one-meter radius. Yet within that protected circle, he finally felt safe. In that cramped space, he could relax completely and sleep soundly for the first time in his life.

Critics had labeled the story as too bleak, but Tsugumi had wanted to explore the idea that what some might see as misery, others could find comfort in. Yoru, Hikaru was an extreme portrayal of that theme.

“In the end, the protagonist’s illness wasn’t cured, right? The people around him had given up, the situation didn’t improve—in fact, it got worse—but he looked happy. It left me questioning whether that was okay. Still, the story didn’t reject either the strong or the weak, and I loved that. It felt like it said, ‘It’s okay for anyone to just exist.’”

Sakutaro’s passionate explanation left Tsugumi nodding along awkwardly. It was strange to find himself overwhelmed by a discussion of his own work.

“It’s funny. Someone like that could easily exist right beside me, but I’d never really thought about it before. Though now that I think of it, I do remember a guy back in school who refused to touch the train’s hanging straps. When I read your book, I was going through some stuff myself, and…”

Sakutaro trailed off, the words hanging unfinished.

“I can’t explain it well, but I’m really glad I came across your book at that time.”

His confession came quietly, as if savoring the memory.

“Ah, thank you.”

Tsugumi hastily bowed his head. Hearing such kind words made him feel like crying. Writing, for Tsugumi, was like cutting himself into tiny pieces to create a second version of himself. This new version, born from Tsugumi, resembled him but wasn’t truly him. Yet it possessed a simple heart—one that rejoiced when praised and hurt when criticized.

“I never thought I’d meet you in person,” Sakutaro said, his gaze lifting to the leaves swaying overhead. The dappled sunlight created shifting shadows on his face, giving his smile a strangely sorrowful, almost tearful quality.

“But I have to admit, I’m a little surprised. I imagined you’d be a young woman.”

“Oh, I hear that a lot. I guess it’s the style of my writing or my name. And I’m not young anymore—I’m 35 this year.”

Sakutaro’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were closer to my age.”

“How old are you, Kouya-san?”

“Twenty-seven.”

I look about that young? Tsugumi thought, glancing downward with a faint smile. He figured his lack of life experience must be written all over his face. But he’d always looked this way. Back in school, people had said he seemed mature, even dignified. If I haven’t changed since then, does that mean I haven’t grown at all? The thought embarrassed him.

“Itou-sensei, you must have kept your youthful spirit,” Sakutaro remarked.

Tsugumi stiffened. “What’s with the ‘sensei’?”

“Isn’t that what people usually call you?”

“Not really.”

Tsugumi avoided interviews and rarely interacted with people outside his publishing house. His age and face were both unknown to most, and on the street, he blended in like anyone else. Editors of his minor, poorly selling novels didn’t bother calling him “sensei,” either.

“Just call me normally. I’m the one asking you for a favor here.”

“All right. Then, Tsugumi-san.”

Tsugumi blinked. He had expected to be addressed by his last name.

“Sorry, I suppose ‘Endou-san’ would be the usual way to address you.”

“No, please use whatever’s easiest for you, Kouya-san.”

“Then, can I call you Tsugumi-san? Your pen name leaves such a strong impression.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Sorry if I’m being too familiar.”

Even while apologizing, Sakutaro’s happiness was evident, and Tsugumi found himself liking the man’s openness. There was a straightforwardness about him, a quality often found in people who had been properly loved and nurtured.

“Feel free to call me whatever you like too. Sakutaro, Saku, even Saku-chan—it’s up to you.”

“That seems a bit informal for the property manager—oh, well, I guess nothing’s settled yet.”

This time, Tsugumi was the one apologizing for being too forward, but Sakutaro quickly reassured him, “It’s fine.”

“You can leave the room arrangements to me. But I should warn you, the building is over 40 years old. It’s not exactly new.”

When Tsugumi asked if it was really okay, Sakutaro nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

“And don’t worry about the guarantor. I’ll talk to my grandfather about it. He’s pretty easygoing about most things. Though, now and then, he’ll refuse someone for no apparent reason. But I’ll take responsibility for your case. You’re good.”

Sakutaro nodded firmly, a sense of conviction in his words.

“By the way, about names—nobody calls me ‘Kouya-san’ at the apartment. If you hear that, they’re talking about my grandfather.”

“Oh, I see. Got it. Then, Sakutaro-san.”

A faint blush crossed Sakutaro’s face, and Tsugumi tilted his head slightly in curiosity.

“No, it’s just that ‘Sakutaro-san’ sounds... old-fashioned, like something out of a period drama.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“No, I meant the way you say it...” Sakutaro muttered, his words trailing off.

Beside him, Tsugumi gazed down at the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees onto the ground.

“‘Forever, forever, I want to lose myself in the dim sea of thought, watching a solitary, forlorn image.’”

“Ah, Hagiwara Sakutaro?”

“Yes, I love his work. That’s why being called Sakutaro-san makes me so happy. My grandfather loves him too. He said he named me after him.”

“I thought so. I’d love to meet him someday.”

“My grandfather would be thrilled.”

Sakutaro’s genuine delight was infectious, and for the first time in a while, Tsugumi smiled with genuine relief.

A place to live was secured—just one of many troubles resolved, but a significant one. As he exhaled with a sense of relief, Sakutaro pulled a university notebook out of his bag. Sitting beside him, Tsugumi couldn’t help but notice as Sakutaro carefully wrote down today’s date, followed by a note: “Tsugumi Endou-san (Tsugumi Itou-san), apartment move-in, guarantor to be discussed with grandfather.”

The notebook’s pages were filled with notes, written in a well-used fountain pen. Despite his relaxed demeanor, Tsumugi was impressed by his diligence and attention to detail when it came to work and promises. 

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