Goodnight, See You Tomorrow: Chapter 10

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The new apartment was 20 years old, with a single eight-tatami room and a four-and-a-half-tatami kitchen. This time, Tsugumi had no hesitation about using a guarantor company. There were far more people in the world without family support than he had realized. That’s why guarantor companies existed. Recognizing this simple fact now was oddly reassuring.

While moving in, Tsugumi passed by some of the other residents. A quick "hello" from him was met with polite but distant nods, avoiding eye contact. It was worlds apart from Sakutaro’s apartment, though that place had been extraordinary. At least they didn’t completely ignore me, he thought, and set about unpacking his things.

It only took half a day to settle in. He went out for dinner, doubling it as a chance to explore the neighborhood. The train station was a 20-minute walk away, but the affordable rent made up for it. The area had a shopping street frequented mostly by the elderly, giving it a relaxed atmosphere that seemed easy to live in. On a main road, Tsugumi found a well-worn diner and had a simple grilled fish set meal. On the way back, he stopped at a convenience store to pick up bread and milk for breakfast.

When he opened the entrance door to the apartment, a breeze stirred some ad flyers from the mail slot, sending them fluttering to the floor. He avoided looking at the bleak scene and climbed the stairs. Unlocking the door, he was greeted by utter darkness.

"I'm home..."

There was no reply, of course. Well, naturally, he thought, flicking on the light. Even though the room lit up, the cramped view of the kitchen and living area felt even colder.

It was mid-December, and the room was freezing. He turned on the wall-mounted heater and decided, I need to buy a kotatsu. Heaters made the air too dry, irritating his throat, and they were expensive to run. A kotatsu not only warmed the space but also had a cozy, comforting look. Is there a home goods store nearby? Filling his mind with practical thoughts, he pushed away the faint, creeping chill of loneliness.

If he was honest, though, there was some unease. December was almost over, with Christmas and New Year looming, and he would spend both alone. Don’t think too far ahead, he told himself. Yet imagining the same situation next year stirred a pang of embarrassment. But maybe this is just how life is.

After 35 years, all he had to show for himself was one thing: the ability to craft words in Japanese and make a living from it. Time and again, he would come to the same realization at unexpected moments. This is all I have. It made him feel foolish, vacillating between sorrow and joy over this single truth. Now, though, the scales tipped more toward gratitude than loneliness.

Tsugumi took out a stack of manuscript paper and set it on his small table.

For work, he used a computer, but for this, he wrote by hand. A while ago, he had started the habit of writing short pieces every two or three days. These were about the small moments and everyday events he had shared with Sakutaro—nothing dramatic, just brief, simple stories spanning three or four pages.

Since starting this project, he had refilled his fountain pen with ink for the first time in years. Unlike typing on a computer, where corrections were immediate, writing by hand forced him to pause before starting. As he let thoughts take shape, he felt Sakutaro's presence vividly, as though he were right there. This was the happiest part of Tsugumi’s day.

"Because I love you, it feels too much."

That’s what Sakutaro had said. Tsugumi knew he hadn’t been rejected. He wanted to hold on to that clarity and avoid twisting Sakutaro’s feelings into something they weren’t. The strength to think this way was also something Sakutaro had given him. And with that, Tsugumi thought, It’s enough. I don’t need anything more.

Gripping the fountain pen firmly, Tsugumi slowly etched the words onto the manuscript paper.

Sakutaro-san no Koto. (About Sakutaro-san)

The title was always the same. Slowly, as if embedding treasures one by one, Tsugumi filled the manuscript paper with each deliberate character. Tonight, he decided to write about visiting Sakutaro’s grandfather in the hospital. Not about himself and Sakutaro, but about the conversations shared between Sakutaro and his grandfather.

He wrote stories of Sakutaro with others, as much as his memory allowed. He deliberately avoided writing about moments between himself and Sakutaro. If Sakutaro ever read these, I wouldn’t want him to remember things that might make him sad. Besides, he didn’t feel the need to document those memories.

The white butterfly they found sleeping in the azalea bushes. The heart-shaped cucumber. The way they both tried to let their fingertips dissolve into the twilight blue of dusk. The sasanquas at night. The time spent with Sakutaro was safely stored within him. He wouldn’t forget.

If someone were to read this, I hope it would at least leave them feeling good, even if it doesn’t bring happiness. That was the thought driving his writing. Yet, he had no intention of letting anyone read this collection of short stories. The only person he wanted to read them was Sakutaro. That’s why the title was Sakutaro-san no Koto. Stripping away all excess, the words shaped themselves into a simple narrative that fit Sakutaro perfectly.

Unseen by anyone. Without purpose. Entirely useless.

And yet, the act of writing was, in itself, Tsugumi’s happiness.

The scratch of the fountain pen against the manuscript paper, the sharp karik sound, was pleasing to his ears. Even in the cramped space of the apartment, he felt grateful for how easily happiness could be found. As he reflected on that gratitude, a single tear fell, and the blue ink smeared on the page.

Why am I crying?

Gratitude wasn’t a lie, and he truly was happy. But people aren’t made of just those things. Tsugumi gazed at the blurry, wavering blue letters with a strange mix of feelings.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

A call came to his cellphone from a public phone on a cold February afternoon. The old voice that greeted him with "It’s been a while" made Tsugumi instinctively sit up straighter. It was Sakutaro’s grandfather.

"It’s been a while. I apologize for not coming to visit you after the move. It was terribly rude of me—"

"Oh, no, no, please, there’s no need for formality. Actually, I have a favor to ask of you today. It’s not something I’d like to discuss over the phone, so could you come to visit me sometime?"

"Ah, yes, of course."

"I feel bad asking you to come all the way here, but, well, my legs don’t work like they used to."

"Please, I’d be happy to come."

After agreeing to visit the next day and ending the call, Tsugumi couldn’t stop wondering what the favor might be. Was it something about Sakutaro? Could it be that there had been some change in his condition?

The moment the thought crossed his mind, a chill ran down his spine. Why am I jumping to conclusions before even hearing anything? It was one of his bad habits, imagining the worst without any basis.

Sitting cross-legged on the chair, Tsugumi stared at the ceiling. Even if my worst fears are true, the ones who suffer most are Sakutaro and his family. No matter what I hear, I can’t let myself be shaken.

Resolving to stay composed, Tsugumi remained perfectly still, like a statue, glaring at the ceiling. Then, as if to shake off the heavy thoughts, he turned back to his computer and threw himself into his work with furious determination.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

"Thank you for coming out in the cold," Sakutaro's grandfather said. It had been half a year since Tsugumi had last seen him, and he still gave the impression of being sharp and resolute.

"It's been a while," Tsugumi replied, bowing deeply. When he handed over some salted daifuku as a gift, the grandfather's face lit up with delight. However, his cheerful mood dimmed as he sighed deeply, explaining that his doctor had recently forbidden him from eating sweets. Tsugumi hastily apologized, but the grandfather waved it off with a resolute smile. "It’s necessary if I want to live long," he said, exuding a reliable strength.

"I should apologize for forgetting to tell you I changed rooms," the grandfather continued. "I didn’t mean to trouble you."

"I found it easily," Tsugumi reassured him.

When Tsugumi first visited the surgical ward where he had last seen the grandfather, a nurse informed him that he had been moved to a private room in the internal medicine ward. While it was likely due to complications beyond his earlier injuries, Tsugumi decided against asking for more details.

"So, the reason I called you here today—" the grandfather began without preamble once Tsugumi had taken a seat.

"Would you return to the apartment?"

"…Pardon?"

"I’m asking if you would stay by Sakutaro’s side."

The grandfather repeated his request.

"Is… is something wrong with Sakutaro? Has his condition worsened?" Tsugumi’s voice quivered, the uneasy feeling he had suppressed since the day before swelling uncontrollably.

"So, you already knew." The grandfather's once-sturdy demeanor seemed to crumble. He shifted his gaze slowly to the window, where a gray sky hung heavy, looking ready to release snow at any moment.

"Injuries you can’t see are far trickier than those you can," he murmured.

After the accident, Sakutaro had changed. Beyond his visible injuries, he had developed a kind of psychological ailment unfamiliar to his grandfather's generation. He spent his days in a fog, seemingly untouched by the world around him. Then, one day, something shifted. The dull, lifeless look in his eyes brightened slightly, and gradually, he began to smile at odd moments. The spark, it seemed, came from a book by a writer named Tsugumi Itou. Slowly, Sakutaro started to take an interest in the world again, eventually managing the apartment and even starting a handyman business.

"His parents were overjoyed to see him recovering, but I… I felt uneasy," the grandfather admitted. "It’s strange, isn’t it? When someone gets better, they often push themselves too far, and before you know it, they snap. That was my only worry, but—" He turned to Tsugumi.

"When he met you, Sakutaro changed. He went from being like grass swaying in the wind to having roots firmly planted. It felt as though he had gained a sense of grounding, a strength of his own."

The grandfather glanced at a white camellia decorating the table.

"I’m his family, so I might be biased, but Sakutaro is a good man. I’ve always thought his best quality was his humility—he never flaunted what he had. But after losing everything, he might have finally realized just how much he’d been blessed compared to others."

He looked down, his expression heavy. "Realizing only after you’ve lost it… That’s such a cruel thing."

"With a head that could blank out at any moment, he’s trying to rebuild his life from scratch. And in the middle of all that, he met you. On your first meeting, you told him you had no family, didn’t you?"

The grandfather asked this with a wry smile, and Tsugumi’s face instantly burned with embarrassment.

"Ah, at that time, I was so caught up in my own struggles that I couldn’t see what was happening around me. Sakutaro-san was going through so much more than I was," Tsugumi said.

"No, Sakutaro had his own thoughts about it," the grandfather replied. "He said that despite all the hardships you’ve likely endured, you don’t seem bitter at all. Every time he visited me, he talked about you with such joy. I think seeing someone who could lift their head even during their toughest times struck a chord with him. He said you made him want to try harder himself."

The grandfather had finally felt reassured about Sakutaro, but toward the end of last year, Sakutaro stopped mentioning Tsugumi altogether. Even when he seemed well, there were moments when his eyes grew distant. Subtly probing the apartment residents who had visited him, the grandfather learned that Tsugumi had moved away.

"Tsugumi-san," the grandfather said, turning to face him. "Sakutaro needs you. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a man or a woman. Please, I’m asking you to return to his side."

The grandfather bent his ailing body deeply and bowed.

"Please, Kouya-san, don’t," Tsugumi said, flustered.

"No, I’m just a selfish old man. I won’t lift my head until you agree."

The grandfather stayed bowed, unmoving. Tsugumi lowered his gaze, his hands clenched tightly on his knees.

I want to stay by Sakutaro’s side too. But I can’t. Right now, I’m too heavy a burden for him.

It felt as though he and Sakutaro were two sides of a precarious scale, swaying with their respective weights. If either tipped too far, both could fall. And it wasn’t in Tsugumi to think we can fall together and that will be okay. That would be wrong. Sakutaro had come to the same conclusion when he made his decision.

"…I’m sorry," Tsugumi said, forcing the words out. Only then did the grandfather finally raise his head. His face, aged significantly in just those moments, twisted Tsugumi’s heart. Reaching into his bag, Tsugumi handed the grandfather a bundle of manuscript paper.

"I wrote these. They’re just short stories, but—"

"'Sakutaro-san no Koto,'" the grandfather read aloud, his hand brushing the handwritten title. He looked at Tsugumi.

"I’d like you to have them, Kouya-san. I started writing these a while ago with no plans to show them to anyone, but I intend to keep writing."

"…You," the grandfather murmured, his brow creasing as though he was witnessing something heartbreaking.

"I’m sorry. This is all I can do right now," Tsugumi said, bowing his head and struggling to contain the emotions threatening to overflow.

"…Even at over eighty, humans can’t seem to attain enlightenment," the grandfather muttered softly. "Here I am, bothering someone young enough to be my grandchild with misguided selfishness."

Still bowing his head, Tsugumi shook it side to side.

"Snow," the grandfather said, his voice contemplative.

Tsugumi raised his head. "…You’re right."

Outside the window, the sky was a blanket of pale gray clouds, and soft, white snowflakes were floating down. They were as beautiful as flower petals. Or perhaps, as meaningless as specks of dust. It was strange that the same thing could appear so different, depending on perspective. It reminded Tsugumi of the fleeting nature of human life.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Tsugumi continued writing Sakutaro-san no Koto and, once it reached a certain length, began sending it to Sakutaro's grandfather at the hospital. Each time, the grandfather replied with a carefully written thank-you letter.

The letters always included updates on Sakutaro. Apparently, his work as a handyman had been steadily increasing, and he was keeping himself busy every day—gardening, helping with moves, escorting elderly people to the hospital, or running errands. Yet, he still struggled with catching a runaway cat.

Reading the flowing brushstrokes of the letters, Tsugumi often felt on the verge of tears. After rereading them enough to memorize their contents, he carefully stored them in an empty box of gifted sweets.

In the fall, a letter arrived alongside the joyous news that the grandfather had finally been discharged from the hospital. Wanting to send a gift to celebrate but aware of dietary restrictions, Tsugumi decided against food. After some thought, he wrote a short story titled "About Kouya-san." It felt self-indulgent and a little embarrassing, but this was the best gift he could think to give.

The grandfather promptly sent a letter expressing how much he had enjoyed the story. He also shared that he had recently started attending computer classes. He suggested exchanging emails, and Tsugumi eagerly agreed.

The grandfather’s enthusiasm for this new endeavor, learning at eighty what others might learn at sixty, was palpable. Soon, they were exchanging emails frequently, which allowed Tsugumi to hear updates on Sakutaro without much delay.

"Sakutaro is doing well every day."

"His symptoms have progressed somewhat, but he says there’s no use worrying about it."

After closing one such email, Tsugumi slumped over his computer and shut his eyes.

Sakutaro rarely shows how much he’s struggling. It’s up to those around him to guess.

What must Sakutaro be feeling now? He can’t possibly be unafraid. Is the pain too much? Is he eating properly? Is he sleeping enough?

The urge to run to Sakutaro’s side overwhelmed him. He wanted to see him, to hold him.

When emotions threatened to overflow, Tsugumi reached for his fountain pen and turned to his manuscript paper. The pages of Sakutaro-san no Koto steadily grew. His work pace also picked up. Writing became a refuge, freeing him from the various sorrows and anxieties weighing him down.

The collaborative project with Komine-sensei that began in winter significantly boosted Tsugumi’s reputation, leading to a surge in job offers. Although criticism from both their readerships was abundant, Tsugumi and Komine-sensei were satisfied with their bold venture. During the celebratory wrap-up party, Tsugumi, uncharacteristically, ended up drunk alongside Komine-sensei. Carried home by Nakanishi and Kudou, the memory became a cherished one.

The grandfather also emailed Tsugumi, mentioning that he’d read a shoujo manga for the first time in his life and had greatly enjoyed it. The image of an octogenarian engrossed in shoujo manga brought a smile to Tsugumi’s face. The letter concluded with congratulations on Tsugumi’s growing presence in the literary world, as well as a gentle reminder to prioritize his health and reach out if he ever felt unwell. Tsugumi felt his tension ease, gradually giving way to warmth.

In the spring, a package arrived from the grandfather. It was heavy, and when Tsugumi opened it, he found stacks of manuscript paper from a well-known, long-established stationery store. All of it was new, and in the bottom-left corner of each sheet was the name Tsugumi Itou, custom-printed.

"…Wow," Tsugumi murmured aloud in the solitude of his room. The luxurious texture of the paper glided smoothly under his fingers.

Name-stamped manuscript paper? Like some great literary master? The thought made him blush, but at the same time, it made him indescribably happy.

The manuscripts for work were always written on a computer, so Tsugumi decided that this new stash of manuscript paper would be reserved solely for Sakutaro-san no Koto. There must have been enough sheets for a hundred books. He resolved to use every last one of them for that purpose. And even if he exhausted the entire supply, he would keep writing. A haze blurred his vision, distorting the neatly lined squares of the manuscript paper.

For once, he didn’t hold back. Tonight, he let the tears flow freely. These aren’t tears of sadness. They’re happy tears. So it’s okay. Smiling through his tears, Tsugumi kept stroking the manuscript paper.

His correspondence with Sakutaro’s grandfather continued.

Whenever Tsugumi sent a batch of finished manuscripts, a carefully written thank-you letter would follow. Alongside this formal exchange, they frequently emailed each other about small, everyday happenings or updates on Sakutaro’s life.

On special occasions like seasonal transitions or even on ordinary days, Tsugumi began receiving cardboard boxes filled with gifts. The contents were reminiscent of care packages sent by rural parents to their children—things that, the moment the tape was peeled away and the contents revealed, brought a wave of warmth and ease. Tsugumi felt as though he had gained a real grandfather.

The box that arrived that day was no different. It contained pumpkins and sweet potatoes harvested from a home garden, soy-sauce-flavored rice crackers with bits of seaweed, honey-glazed karinto snacks, and a new brand of almond chocolate. Tsugumi loved how the grandfather always struck a perfect balance between old-fashioned treats and something fresh and modern. There were also salted caramels, sweet soy candies, and mint tablets.

“Wait?”

Sitting cross-legged in front of the box, Tsugumi tilted his head in confusion.

That was the last gift he ever received from Sakutaro’s grandfather.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Two years had passed since Tsugumi had left the apartment. It was a winter day when it happened.

“Grandpa passed away early this morning.”

The message stopped Tsugumi cold. Clutching his phone, he shut his eyes tightly. The moment Sakutaro’s name appeared on the screen, a sense of foreboding had already settled in. For Sakutaro to reach out meant that something significant had happened.

At the wake held at the Kouya apartment, many people came to pay their respects, a testament to the breadth of the grandfather’s connections. The apartment residents were also there, sharing in the grief. Even Nira, usually impassive and unreadable, had swollen, red eyes—a striking sight. Tsugumi knew how the old man had carefully maintained just the right distance in his interactions with Nira, who had withdrawn from the world after moving to Tokyo.

Looking up at the framed portrait of the grandfather, Tsugumi’s tears flowed freely as memories of their last meeting resurfaced. Snow was falling today, just as it had that day. After offering incense, Tsugumi couldn’t bring himself to leave immediately. Instead, he lingered in the garden, staring absently at the falling snow.

“Tsugumi-san.”

He turned to find Sakutaro standing behind him. During the incense offering, Sakutaro’s family had taken their place in the designated seats, so it had been a long time since they’d last met face to face.

“Thank you for coming today—for my grandfather.”

Sakutaro bowed formally, and Tsugumi, silent, returned the gesture. Their gazes met briefly, but neither could find words. For all the time Tsugumi had wished to see him again, he had never wanted it to happen under such circumstances.

“The snow’s getting heavy,” Sakutaro remarked, looking up at the sky. In his profile, Tsugumi could see traces of the grandfather. I wish I could have spoken with him more, about so many things. Setting aside Sakutaro, Tsugumi had genuinely loved the grandfather.

Tsugumi turned his gaze away from Sakutaro’s profile, directing it instead toward the falling snow. The garden was encircled by white sasanquas. Their modest and gentle blooms reminded him of the time he’d spent living in the apartment—the night he carried a drunk Sakutaro home, the time he’d stained his nose yellow with pollen.

“The sasanquas are beautiful,” Tsugumi murmured.

“Sasanquas?” Sakutaro echoed, making Tsugumi’s heart skip.

Sakutaro followed Tsugumi’s gaze to the flowers. “Aren’t those camellias?”

When Sakutaro asked again, Tsugumi stifled his unease.

“The symptoms have progressed a bit, but there’s no use worrying about it,” the grandfather had said.

“The symptoms have progressed a bit.”

“The symptoms have progressed.”

Taking a quiet, steadying breath, Tsugumi replied evenly, “No, those are sasanquas. See how the petals scatter?”

He pointed to where the white petals fluttered down, mingling with the falling snow before landing on the withered grass. Regret washed over him. He had wanted to teach this distinction to Sakutaro before—but he hadn’t expected it to come about in this way. There was no satisfaction in it, only sadness.

“That’s the easiest way to tell camellias and sasanquas apart,” Tsugumi explained. “Camellias drop whole flowers, while sasanquas scatter their petals one by one. Some say camellias’ falling flowers are an ill omen, but—”

“Oh,” Sakutaro interjected softly. “I remember now. Or no… it’s more like something clicked.”

Tsugumi didn’t quite follow what he meant.

“Camellias are bold, sasanquas leave a lingering impression. Both are beautiful flowers that suit Japanese tastes. My grandmother had a gentle sensibility… Wasn’t that how it went?”

The phrasing was hauntingly familiar.

“Normally, memories connect and flow together, right?” Sakutaro said, his voice taking on a reflective tone. “But apparently, in my head, about half of my memories are just floating around. I remember things, but they’re all scattered. It’s getting harder to pull one memory out and let it lead to another.”

Tsugumi bit down hard on his lip, trying to hold himself together.

“I’m not despairing,” Sakutaro said. “I still remember so much more than I forget, and sometimes, like now, a memory will reconnect by chance. Sakutaro-san no Koto—those stories are like little triggers that help me remember.”

“When did you start reading them?” Tsugumi asked hesitantly.

“Maybe the year after you moved out of the apartment. Grandpa handed me a bundle of handwritten manuscript paper. The title said, Sakutaro-san no Koto.” He smiled warmly. “I can’t even explain how happy it made me to read them. Not even you, the one who wrote them, could understand how much it meant.”

Sakutaro’s smile was genuine, so pure it hurt.

“But,” he continued, “I quickly realized I couldn’t just be happy about it. I thought you’d gotten back together with Itou-san.”

“…I’m sorry for lying,” Tsugumi admitted.

“Don’t apologize. I’m the one who made you lie. I left your feelings behind and selfishly asked Itou-san to look after you. In the end, it felt like I’d driven you out of the apartment. That’s when I realized how selfish I really am.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is.”

The strength of Sakutaro’s voice startled Tsugumi into silence.

“Knowing you were living alone, writing about me, made me so happy I could cry. Knowing you hadn’t gone back to Itou-san and were staying by yourself made me happy. Knowing you didn’t have any family made me happy. Isn’t that the height of selfishness?”

Sakutaro’s face contorted as he spoke.

“I wasn’t thinking about you at all. It was all about me.”

“Sakutaro-san, I—”

The feelings Tsugumi had been suppressing surged to the surface. He had always wanted to stay by Sakutaro’s side. Back then, now, and forever.

“That’s why, this time, I’m letting go for real.”

The words Tsugumi had been about to say caught in his throat.

“Forget about me completely. Thank you for writing so much about me in Sakutaro-san no Koto. Having a favorite writer dedicate stories to me makes me incredibly lucky. I’ll treasure them for the rest of my life.”

Sakutaro smiled. It was the same smile Tsugumi had seen when they first met—a smile that could make people think he had never struggled, that he had lived a charmed life. A smile that said he had decided to carry all his burdens alone. Tsugumi realized he would never be allowed to step into that space.

“…Sakutaro-san, can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“All those emails—those were from you, right?”

Sakutaro’s eyes widened slightly.

“The formal letters were from your grandfather, but the emails—they were yours. And the packages? They were chosen by both of you, weren’t they?”

That was why the boxes always contained a mix of nostalgic and new items.

“When did you figure it out?”

Sakutaro looked resigned, like a child caught in a lie. “The moment I saw the mint candies in one of the boxes.”

“Mint?”

“Grandpa and I once talked during his hospital stay about how neither of us liked mint.”

Sakutaro gazed distantly at the sasanqua flowers as he spoke. Then his expression clouded.

“…So I’ve forgotten even that.”

He lowered his head slightly, laughing in self-deprecation, but then quickly turned back to Tsugumi. His lips curved upward, but the forced quality of the smile was unmistakable.

“Goodbye, Tsugumi-san.”

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