Goodnight, See You Tomorrow: Chapter 12

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Sweet Little Life

After returning home from his morning work, Sakutaro sat down on the veranda and began writing in his large notebook. He recorded the day’s appointments, conversations with clients, and other general details. It was an essential ritual for him, one that grounded his daily life. Once everything was written down, he closed the notebook with a soft thud.

“Tsumugi, I’m done. Shall we have lunch now?” he called toward the room.

“Okay,” came the cheerful reply.

Tsumugi never interrupted Sakutaro when he was writing in his notebook. Whether they had planned a meal or an outing, Tsumugi would quietly occupy himself—reading, tidying up, or working on his own tasks. This unspoken consideration helped Sakutaro stay focused without feeling pressured to hurry.

“The weather’s nice. Let’s eat on the veranda today,” Tsumugi suggested from the other room.

“Good idea,” Sakutaro said, standing up to help.

Lunch was chilled somen noodles, their first of the season as the weather had turned suddenly hot. The noodles were served in a flavorful sauce topped with tomato, okra, and tuna, with a drizzle of spicy chili oil for an extra kick.

“This is delicious. I really like it,” Sakutaro said as he ate.

Tsumugi smiled warmly. “You liked it last year too, remember?”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. That’s why I decided to make it again this year. We could try using pork shabu-shabu instead of tuna next time.”

“That sounds good,” Sakutaro agreed as they discussed variations, slurping their noodles in harmony.

Even though Tsumugi had said Sakutaro liked the dish last year, the memory was vague and hazy for him, like something faintly familiar yet out of reach. In the past, this uncertainty would have bothered him, compelling him to search through old notebooks to confirm. But not anymore.

If it was a minor, everyday thing that caused no harm, Sakutaro had learned to let it go and embrace the moment. Maybe it’s because Tsumugi naturally does the same.

“Yeah, that’s why I’ll make it again this year,” Tsumugi had said.

Even if I forget, Tsumugi remembers for me.

At first, Sakutaro had tried to conceal his condition as much as possible, but over time, as they lived together, the lines between relying on each other and coexisting blurred into something woven like colorful threads. Their relationship had become like a quilt—stitched together imperfectly but beautiful when spread wide. There was no need to force the patterns to match.

“I’m glad we built this veranda,” Tsumugi said, squinting contentedly at the backyard.

“Yeah, the greenery is especially vibrant this time of year,” Sakutaro replied.

At the edge of summer, the vegetable garden thrived with growing vigor. Between the leafy gaps, red tomatoes had just begun to ripen.

It had been seven years since Sakutaro and Tsumugi began living together on the first floor of the apartment that Sakutaro’s grandfather had passed on to him. Their home consisted of a living room, a bedroom, and Tsumugi’s office. The veranda was a recent addition, constructed last autumn during repairs to fix worn-out sections of the building.

Over these seven years, the residents of the apartment had changed.

The single father, Kanami, and his son had moved out after successfully remarrying. Ellie, ever the romantic, had moved out three months ago to live with a new boyfriend, though he had already moved back in three times for the same reason. They decided not to rent out his unit for a while, anticipating his potential fourth return.

Nira, the reclusive gamer, had been pressured by his surroundings to start a game development company two years ago to offset increasing taxes. He now lived in an upscale apartment in Roppongi, though he still preferred to stay indoors. Seto, unchanged from the past, continued living on the second floor, though he was currently in Canada scaling mountains and wouldn’t return until the fall.

Sakutaro glanced at Tsumugi as they enjoyed the serene, sunlit veranda, feeling an unspoken gratitude for the quiet rhythm of their shared life.

Everyone has changed, and yet they haven’t.

Seven years is just enough time to look back with a vague sense of longing.

A soft breeze drifted through, and a clear chime rang above Sakutaro’s head.

It was the wind chime he had hung that morning.

Tsumugi had taken it out from the storage box of summer items, and Sakutaro had used a step stool to hang it. The glass wind chime, adorned with black and red goldfish swimming in a circle as if chasing each other’s tails, was something they had bought together at a shrine market last year. He remembered how rare it was for Tsumugi to ask for something so directly. If it’s something like this, I’d buy you ten, twenty if you wanted.

The early summer breeze blew again, brushing Sakutaro’s cheek and the wind chime, filling the air with its delicate, clear tone. From inside the house, the sound of Tsumugi washing dishes accompanied the peaceful moment. Sakutaro closed his eyes, basking in the contentment.

“Sorry, it’s just… it still feels like a dream.”

Tsumugi’s bashful smile and voice floated into his mind. He pictured a slightly younger Tsumugi. When was this? He chased the memory in his mind and realized it was from their first night living together. Those two years when they couldn’t be together despite loving each other had finally ended, and on that night, Tsumugi had said those words.

What did I say in response? He couldn’t quite remember.

But now, Sakutaro realized he felt the same way Tsumugi had back then.

This life is so blissful, it feels like a dream.

Since being diagnosed with amnesia as a result of the accident, Sakutaro’s life had changed drastically. His collection of notebooks had grown steadily, but there was no way to reread all of them every day. He couldn’t tell whether past events still existed in his mind or had been lost entirely.

The doctor had recommended a sleek tablet—it was compact and allowed easy searches by date or keyword. Yet for Sakutaro, the intricate human brain, despite its flaws, was far more precise than any machine. And knowing that his own was broken, he found himself mistrusting not just machines and data but even people.

No, it wasn’t others I couldn’t trust—it was myself.

When the diagnosis first came, it had terrified him. What’s going to happen to me? He imagined memories slipping away like coins through a hole in his pocket. No one would notice or tell him what he had lost because memories weren’t tangible. And when he dropped the last one, would he lose himself entirely?

The moment that thought crossed his mind, his legs gave out. He collapsed in the hospital corridor, his strength drained. Nurses moved around him, bustling with purpose, as he lay on the bed in the treatment room, staring at them with deadened eyes.

I’m still alive, but I feel like I’ve been killed.

Life ahead seemed like a slow, inevitable march toward the gallows. Every step would bring him closer to a terrifying destination. He wished someone would walk beside him, and as soon as that thought surfaced, tears began to fall.

But he realized something cruel: he no longer deserved a partner. Asking someone he loved to walk this dark, frightening path with him was unthinkable. Even if he did, they would refuse. How could they not?

In the face of such bleakness, having family offered some solace. His parents and grandfather would pass before him, but not right away. In the meantime, they could support each other, prepare for the inevitable, and face the loss together. He could brace himself for the time when he’d be left alone with his illness.

I’ll live on my own.

Even when he managed to smile again, that resolve remained at the core of his heart.

Sakutaro had met Tsumugi during that time of his life.

He had encountered Tsumugi’s novels much earlier.

One story had featured a protagonist grappling with mental illness, a character barreling toward ruin. Yet, within the pages of that novel, the protagonist wasn’t condemned. The sick and the healthy, the good and the bad—they all floated together within the same vessel, never once cast out.

When Sakutaro read that story, he felt as though he had been forgiven. It’s okay for you to stay here, it seemed to say. He had wished fervently to meet the person who had saved him through those words. He wanted to tell him how his story had given him hope. That writer had been Tsumugi. And now, Tsumugi was by his side, his partner in life.

“Sorry, it’s just… it still feels like a dream.”

In his mind, a younger Tsumugi smiled sheepishly once again.

If this is a dream, I think I might cry when I wake up.

Sakutaro narrowed his eyes against the vibrant green of the vegetable garden.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

When Sakutaro finished his afternoon work, he stopped by the supermarket to buy ingredients for dinner. Walking through the aisles with a basket in hand, he flipped through his “meal notebook.” Unlike the journal he used to chronicle the events of his day, this notebook held notes on Tsumugi’s likes, dislikes, and the dishes he had complimented. Lunch had been somen noodles—what should they have for dinner? Tsumugi preferred lighter meals.

Sakutaro usually cooked dinner. Since Tsumugi’s writing flow picked up in the afternoons and evenings, it naturally became Sakutaro’s role to prepare meals, except on days when his handyman work kept him late. At first, Tsumugi had hesitated to leave the responsibility to him, but once engrossed in writing, he couldn’t pull himself away. Eventually, he began leaving it to Sakutaro without protest. In this way, day after day, their two gears turned smoothly and harmoniously together.

At the meat section, Sakutaro picked up some pork loin for ginger stir-fry, which was on sale. Tsumugi had always been slender, and the summer heat tended to wear him down further. Sakutaro wanted to help him stay strong and healthy.

“Since I started eating the same meals as Sakutaro-san, my summer fatigue hasn’t been as bad.”

Tsumugi, now 42 years old, had said that with a gentle smile. When he smiled, faint lines formed at the corners of his eyes, softening his already kind expression. On nights when he seemed especially delicate, Sakutaro would fill the table with meat dishes. Tsumugi would laugh and say, “I can’t eat all this,” while Sakutaro, embarrassed, would smile back, silently praying for him to stay healthy and live a long life.

After dinner, they spent their evenings together. Sitting at the low dining table in the living room, Sakutaro wrote in his notebook about the day’s events while Tsumugi worked on his manuscripts. Though Tsumugi used his computer for professional work in his office, he wrote Sakutaro-san no Koto by hand. Whether it was before or after they started living together, Tsumugi continued to write short, personal stories every two or three days and always let Sakutaro read them first.

Sakutaro wondered what Tsumugi was writing about now. Could it be about the somen noodles with okra, tuna, and tomatoes they had for lunch? While he thought about it, the wind chime on the veranda jingled. Its cool, clear sound caught his attention.

“Feels like a classic Japanese summer. When did we put it up?”

“This morning,” Tsumugi replied.

Glancing at his notebook, Sakutaro saw that he had indeed written about the wind chime. A wave of disappointment washed over him. I forgot again. But he didn’t apologize. Across the table, Tsumugi continued writing with his fountain pen, unbothered.

Lately, Sakutaro felt that his symptoms were worsening. The pattern of memory loss was unpredictable. Sometimes he vividly recalled events from long ago, while other times, like now, he forgot things as recent as that morning. Precious memories slipped away, while trivial ones lingered. No matter how much he tried to laugh it off or agonize over it, the forgetting happened suddenly, without warning. When it came to his illness, there was nothing he could control.

Amid this, there was only one thing Sakutaro could do: not make the person beside him sad. He couldn’t mourn what was lost or pretend it didn’t matter. He had to accept himself as he was now, difficult as it was. How could he embrace a flawed version of himself, one so different from who he used to be?

And yet, Tsumugi said he loved the Sakutaro of today. Each day, Tsumugi picked up the coins that fell from the holes in Sakutaro’s metaphorical pocket, holding them gently in his hand as they walked forward together. When Sakutaro forgot, Tsumugi remembered. When Sakutaro asked the same question over and over, Tsumugi patiently answered it every time. Each repetition deepened Sakutaro’s affection for him, piling up like the stack of handwritten short stories that Tsumugi lovingly crafted every evening.

"Shall we start peeling the peaches, Sakutaro-san?"

Tsumugi put down his fountain pen and stood up.

"Yeah, they should be chilled by now."

In the kitchen sink sat a stainless steel bowl filled with icy water, where large peaches floated. They were a gift from a house Sakutaro visited for work earlier that day—peaches from Okayama, famed for their quality, sent by a relative. Their fuzzy skin glistened as the ice water repelled the moisture.

"Peeling peaches is always fun."

Tsumugi made a precise cut along the natural seam, splitting the peach cleanly in two, much like an avocado. The half without the pit was sliced into pieces, while the half with the pit was sectioned further until the flesh separated. Only then did he peel away the skin.

"Here you go."

A glass dish filled with neatly arranged peach slices was set on the low dining table.

"Impressive. Peeling peaches is one thing I’m no good at."

"Peaches are delicate. You press too hard, Sakutaro-san."

As they chatted, Tsumugi speared a slice with a toothpick and handed it over with a soft "Here."

A tiny insect buzzed close, drawn by the sweet scent.

"Looks like we need to start using mosquito repellents. Do we have any left in the wicker chest?"

"Nope, the one we had—the pig-shaped one—broke last year when it fell."

"Anything flat, like a saucer, will do."

"No," Tsumugi said firmly, which was rare for him. "It has to be the pig."

"Why the pig?"

"My grandmother used to use one at her house," he explained.

"Ah, I see."

Sakutaro was sure he’d heard this story before, probably several times.

"Okay, let’s pick one up next weekend. Oh, and let’s get you some new sandals while we’re out."

"That’s fine. These can last a bit longer."

"No, they can’t. Sandals leave your feet exposed—you’re more likely to get hurt."

"You're such a worrier, Sakutaro-san."

"Is it annoying?"

"It’s sweet."

Tsumugi smiled and playfully pinched Sakutaro’s nose. A soft, sweet scent wafted between them.

"Oh."

"What?"

"You smell like peaches."

"Well, I was peeling them just now."

Tsumugi brought his fingers to his nose, sniffing lightly. His slender, long fingers bore a delicate platinum ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. Naturally, an identical ring adorned Sakutaro’s own left hand.

The faint fragrance of peaches lingered in the air, mingling with the gentle chime of the wind bell on the veranda.

Time passed with idle, happy conversation, so sweet it made Sakutaro want to cry.

──What if I made you even happier?

If god offered to turn back time, to before the accident, Sakutaro would refuse. That accident, however painful, had led him to meet Tsumugi. If undoing it meant losing Tsumugi, then the life he had now was far better.

But if he could ask for one thing, just one request to god, it would be this:

God, please, let me spend as much time with Tsumugi as possible.

Losing my memories is nothing compared to losing Tsumugi. That is the greater sadness.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

When Sakutaro sat on the veranda, listening to the sound of the wind chimes, Tsugumi called to him from the living room, "It's time for lunch."

Today's lunch was somen noodles. The humid heat had been relentless, and the chilled noodles sliding smoothly down his throat felt refreshing. White noodles floated in a bowl of water, cooled with ice, and the dipping sauce was accompanied by ginger and scallions. He vaguely recalled that their somen usually had more toppings every year... or maybe he was mistaken.

“Is it good?” he was asked from across the table.

Sakutaro nodded with a smile.

“If there’s anything you’d like to eat, let me know.”

“Anything you make is delicious, Tsugumi.”

Tsumugi’s eyes softened, though his expression seemed tinged with sadness. Just as Sakutaro was about to ask what was wrong, the wind chime on the veranda rang again.

“Such a lovely sound…” Tsumugi murmured, tilting his head slightly to listen.

The breeze ruffled Tsumugi’s hair. Lately, he’d been growing it out and now tied it back in a single ponytail with a scrunchie that looked like a polka-dotted fabric coiled into a circle. When Sakutaro said it was cute, Tsumugi had smiled modestly and explained it was called a shushu. When Sakutaro joked that it made him look like a young girl, Tsumugi had laughed softly.

The afternoon heat was stifling, so he spent the time leisurely. The heat had been especially harsh lately, sapping his energy. A couch was brought out to the veranda, shaded by bamboo blinds, where he could relax in the natural breeze.

“Here’s some water.” Tsugumi said, carrying a tray with a glass on.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“It's that kind of carelessness that leads to heatstroke. You need to drink water regularly.”

He placed the cold glass, beaded with condensation, on a nearby side table where it was easy to reach. Tiny bubbles floated in the glass. Noticing Sakutaro's gaze, Tsugumi smiled reassuringly.

“It’s unsweetened soda water. The doctor said you need to watch your sugar intake.”

“Thank you. Sorry for the trouble.”

Tsugumi smiled gently and returned to the living room.

Honestly, drinking water when he wasn’t thirsty felt like a chore, but there was no avoiding it. With a small sigh, he sat up and reached for the glass. Floating in the soda water was a green leaf. As he brought the glass closer, the refreshing scent of mint tickled his nostrils. It was a summery aroma, though...

Didn’t Tsumugi dislike mint? He never used it much…

Sakutaro vaguely remembered hearing that during an important conversation in the past. But he couldn't quite place when or why.

Sakutaro no longer kept the notebook where he used to jot down daily events or the one where he recorded Tsumugi’s likes and dislikes. He couldn’t even remember when he stopped using them. Why did I stop? The reason had slipped away as well.

He had been living with this disease for so long now, losing memories like loose change falling through a hole in his pocket. Perhaps he had adjusted too well. The world around him—happiness, sadness, and everything in between—now seemed to blur into a hazy, dreamlike state.

It wasn’t just forgetfulness; he also misremembered things more often misunderstandings. Yet, unlike before, he no longer felt panicked or disheartened. Events and time seemed to flow by gently, almost beautifully.

Once, forgetting had only been sorrow. But now... perhaps forgetting is a kind of salvation.

Sakutaro couldn’t quite pinpoint why he felt this way, but the thought lingered as he sipped the mint soda.

He spent the afternoon napping until he woke to someone gently calling his name.

“Sakutaro-san, it’s three o’clock.”

“Three o’clock?”

Confused, he tilted his head as if the words made no sense. The young woman—one he didn’t quite recognize—smiled as if to say, “Don’t worry about it”. She took his hand and helped him stand from the couch. She led him through the living room, past the bedroom, and into the adjacent room. It was Tsugumi’s workroom, a place Sakutaro rarely entered.

What awaited him there felt like stepping into a different world.

"Take your time and chat with Tsugumi-san," the young woman said this, releasing Sakutaro's hand before leaving the room.

Left alone, Sakutaro stood there, dazed for a while. In the quiet room, a small Buddhist altar stood, and above it, Tsugumi's memorial portrait was displayed.

──Ah...

A gentle wave rolled through his heart.

──Ah, that's right. You are no longer here.

Tsugumi had passed away two years ago, at the age of 86.

──Sakutaro-san, thank you for living longer than me.

──Thank you for keeping your promise.

──I was so, so happy.

Those were Tsugumi's final words, bringing to mind the promise they had exchanged in their younger days.

 

──I will absolutely live longer than you, Tsugumi. I won’t leave you behind. I won’t let you be alone.

 

How many years had passed since then? So much time had flowed by that he could no longer calculate it, and yet, what remained in his unreliable mind were only memories of happiness. On that night, they had made a promise to each other, and now he realized that Tsugumi had kept his promise as well.

 

──I’ll make you happy too, Sakutaro-san.

 

Letting those gentle memories wash over him, Sakutaro slowly lowered himself onto the cushion. For a while, he gazed vacantly at Tsugumi’s portrait before lighting a stick of incense.

"Once again, I forgot today. I'm sorry."

He spoke aloud to the empty room.

"But I remembered, so it’s okay now."

Every day, he forgot that Tsugumi was gone. Every day, he mistook the young female caregiver who came to visit for Tsugumi. And every day, at three o’clock, the caregiver would lead him to the Buddhist altar as he had requested, and he would be forced to face reality.

Every day, he forgot.

Every day, he remembered.

Before the unrelenting sense of loss could overwhelm him, Sakutaro reached for a book placed on the altar.

Its title was Sakutaro-san no Koto (About Sakutaro-san).

Tsugumi had initially refused to publish it, insisting it was only for Sakutaro. But after three years of persuasion by his editor, the first volume was released long ago. A collection of everyday, tender moments, Sakutaro-san no Koto had unexpectedly become a quiet hit, steadily selling and continuing as a series for eleven volumes.

Even as his workload grew year by year, Tsugumi himself never changed. He kept writing diligently until the day before he lost consciousness, always letting Sakutaro read his drafts first.

In the daily ebb and flow of forgetting, Tsugumi's novels helped him remember.

His stories, gently tied together through his compassionate perspective, became like charms or a cane, continually supporting Sakutaro when he was about to stumble.

“...Tsugumi.”

Saying the name aloud, Sakutaro slowly stroked the cover of Sakutaro-san no Koto. He looked at his wrinkled hands and smiled faintly.

There were no tears.

The longing was now deeper than the sadness.

Even so, every day, his thoughts turned to small, futile wishes:

If I’m going to forget, maybe it’s better to just stay that way, without remembering.

But if my memory does return, I wish it could go back to when Tsugumi was still alive.

If such a miracle won’t happen, then at least let this all be a lie.

If only someone—anyone, even God—could tell me it’s not true that Tsugumi is no longer by my side.

His thin, withered arms reflected his years, but his heart stubbornly refused to age.

Tsugumi, I want you here with me.

Every day, at three in the afternoon, the same longing cycled through him.

Love and longing mingled, merging into a depth that defied comprehension.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

In the evening, after it had cooled down, Sakutaro went out for a walk, asking the caregiver who accompanied him to keep an eye from a short distance behind.

The route was always the same, a familiar path. Since some time ago, he had been discouraged from walking alone, but there were still times when he wanted to wander outside, lost in thought.

At his age, Sakutaro had come to realize that any desire to do something independently would inevitably inconvenience someone else. After that realization, he stopped saying, “I want to do this, or I want to do that”. Some days, he could accept it as a simple fact of life. Other days, he felt unbearably restricted. It varied from day to day.

Today, he stopped by the supermarket.

Taking a worn-out meal notebook from his bag, he walked past displays of tomatoes, okra, and other summer vegetables. Inside the notebook was a note about the somen Tsugumi used to make every summer.

The caregiver always kindly said, “Please tell me if there’s anything you’d like to eat,” but after asking once and finding the taste different, he hadn’t made another request. It felt ungrateful to complain when someone else was cooking for him.

Tsugumi, how did you make that broth?

When Tsugumi had been by his side, he’d never thought to ask. The somen he made wasn’t just food—it was that somen, with that flavor and those toppings, inseparable from his presence. It had simply existed, taken for granted.

For someone who thought he understood the ease with which things could be lost, it had been a careless mistake.

Reflecting on his memories with Tsugumi, unraveling them like a skein of yarn, he wished to try different broths. But they had already forbidden him from using the stove, calling it dangerous. The constant restrictions left him feeling helpless. With a sigh of resignation, he bought two peaches labeled as being from Okayama, intending to place them on Tsugumi’s altar.

Leaving the supermarket, he walked home slowly.

"Sakutaro-san."

He thought he heard someone call his name and turned around.

In the fading summer light, he caught a glimpse of a slender figure that resembled Tsugumi’s. It looked like Tsugumi’s back, just as he had appeared in his mid-thirties, around the time they first me.

Without thinking, he tried to follow, but his legs faltered, and his hands struck the ground. The asphalt, warmed from the day’s heat, felt faintly comforting against his palms. The caregiver rushed to his side.

“Kouya-san, are you okay?”

“Yes... I’m fine, sorry,” he replied, but his gaze darted around, searching desperately for Tsugumi’s figure.

Yet the vision of his back, which had seemed so clear just moments before, had vanished entirely.

Sakutaro felt as though he were a child lost in a crowd, hopelessly adrift.

"Shall we hold hands? Let’s go home together."

"No, no, it’s okay. Thank you."

Holding the plastic bag with peaches, Sakutaro bowed his head in embarrassment to the young woman. He stood with difficulty on legs no longer capable of quick movements and resumed his journey home.

In the summer twilight, the orange blossoms of trumpet vines adorned the gardens of passing houses. A soft, delicate orange.

"Beautiful, aren’t they?"

As they walked together, Tsugumi would always narrow his eyes, savoring the sight as he spoke. Even in the apartment he now lived in alone, without tenants or others to care for, flowers still bloomed in the garden. Where the vegetable patch had fallen into disrepair, he had planted marguerites and cosmos. In winter, the white sasanquas in the front garden would let their petals fall gently to the ground.

“See, the petals have fallen.”

“That’s the easiest way to tell camellias and sasanquas apart.”

Having forgotten so much, every time Sakutaro reread Sakutaro-san no Koto, he discovered something new. Forgetting, remembering, then forgetting again. He occasionally wondered how long this would go on.

Reaching into the twilight air, streaked with deep pink and blue, Sakutaro stretched out his hand.

“Sometimes, if you hold your hand out like this, you can feel your fingertips melt into the air.”

Tsugumi’s voice echoed in his memory. Back then, they were so young.

As he walked through the evening streets, arm outstretched, passersby turned to look. "What’s that grandpa doing?" a child’s voice rang out. Sakutaro couldn’t hear how the mother responded.

In a world where everything seemed to be slipping further and further away, he suddenly felt his fingertips dissolve into the blue.

──Ah, Tsugumi.

In that fleeting instant, Sakutaro always felt as if Tsugumi had taken his hand. As if Tsugumi, now part of the faintly rosy and blue-tinged air, was melting him away from his fingertips and drawing him somewhere else. But the illusion lasted only a moment. His fingers remained stitched firmly to his body, anchored to the ground beneath his feet.

──Not today either, huh.

Like a child losing a game, Sakutaro felt a faint pang of disappointment. Then he raised his head and began walking again.

Tomorrow. I’ll try again tomorrow.

It probably wouldn’t take much longer for all of him to dissolve into the air. Until then, he would keep walking through each day, accompanied by Sakutaro-san no Koto, the book Tsugumi had left behind for him.

Though I’ll probably forget this thought by tomorrow.

And then I’ll remember it again.

Each day, every single day, love and longing layered upon one another.

Until one day—likely not so far from now—he would meet Tsugumi again, somewhere beyond this place.

THE END

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