Goodnight, See You Tomorrow: Chapter 6

Previous TOC Next

The next morning, Tsugumi woke up first.

The intense experience from the night before had been unexpected in many ways. While his body was utterly exhausted, his mind remained sharp. He had just begun to drift off in the early hours when Sakutaro’s arm, draped over his shoulder, slid onto the tatami. That slight movement was enough to wake him.

“…Sakutaro-san.”

He tried whispering the name. Sakutaro’s breathing was deep, showing no signs of waking. Relieved by this, Tsugumi carefully sat up and leaned in closer.

For a moment, he gazed at Sakutaro’s serene, untroubled sleeping face. What kind of dream is he having now?

"I'm scared."

The words Sakutaro had murmured last night as he trembled came back to Tsugumi. Was his heart, trembling with fear, at least a little comforted? Gently, he smoothed Sakutaro’s tousled hair. Careful not to wake him, he pressed down lightly, patting it into place. That’s when he noticed it—on the back of Sakutaro’s head, there was a faint scar in the shape of a crescent moon, an area where no hair grew.

An injury?

It must have been hidden beneath his hair until now. The sight made Tsugumi imagine a young Sakutaro, likely running around in shorts, picking up sticks to wave them about and play. Inevitably, he’d get injured—probably many times—and that’s how he must have grown up.

“…What’s so funny?”

The raspy voice brought Tsugumi back to the present. When he turned his gaze, he found Sakutaro awake and looking at him.

“How long have you been up?”

“A little while.”

“You’ve got a scar on your head,” Tsugumi pointed out.

At his words, Sakutaro narrowed his eyes. It didn’t look like a smile.

“Yeah, just a small accident.”

“From a long time ago?”

“Yeah, pretty long ago.”

Sakutaro sat up and grabbed the shirt discarded beside the futon, pulling it over his shoulders.

“…Tsugumi-san, about last night…”

He lowered his gaze, repeatedly touching his neck as though unsure how to proceed. Regret emanated from him, making it obvious he was searching for the right words to fix things. But Tsugumi had already decided how to respond.

“Ugh, I’m sore all over,” he said with a small laugh.

Sakutaro turned to look at him.

“You were really intense, Sakutaro-san. I was a little surprised.”

Reaching for his own shirt, Tsugumi put it on with his back turned, adding with a slightly awkward laugh, “This kind of thing feels a bit embarrassing.”

He deliberately kept things lighthearted, knowing that trying to play it cool or indifferent would only make things worse and risk exposing his real feelings. He acted as much like his usual self as he could.

“Sakutaro-san, you don’t have to look like that.”

“Like what?”

While smoothing down his own hair, Tsugumi casually explained, “I’ve been helped a lot by you—letting me rent a room, encouraging me when I was feeling down. I’m really grateful for everything. That’s why I wanted to do something for you, too. So… well, last night was just one of those things. Don’t worry about responsibility or anything.”

He intentionally added a touch of humor, ending his words with polite speech to soften the impact.

Even as he spoke, Tsugumi knew he was creating some distance to soothe his own feelings. Sakutaro, however, looked at him with furrowed brows, as though piecing together a puzzle. His expression had the same earnestness of a child relying on intuition or an adult carefully analyzing a situation.

He’s going to see through me.

The thought made Tsugumi uncomfortable, and he almost squirmed under Sakutaro’s gaze.

“Dad! I’m back! I’m starving!”

Ichirou’s voice suddenly rang out from the front door. He must have returned from summer break calisthenics.

“Welcome back. Leftover curry from last night’s dinner is on the table. I’m heading to work, so just wash the dishes afterward,” Kanami called out as his footsteps echoed down the stairs.

“Okay! Have a good day!” Ichirou’s cheerful voice trailed upstairs, and his light steps thudded on the second floor.

“Morning,” came Seto’s groggy voice, accompanied by the sound of the bathroom faucet turning on. Water gushed out loudly.

“Well, I should probably get going too,” Tsugumi said, rising amid the morning’s clamor.

“Tsugumi-san…”

Sakutaro looked up at him with a conflicted expression that squeezed at Tsugumi’s chest.

“If anyone sees us, I’d be in trouble, too,” Tsugumi said, emphasizing the too.

At that, Sakutaro shut his mouth, which had been slightly open as though he wanted to speak.

“See you,” Tsugumi said, giving a small wave at waist height before slipping out the back door as he had the night before.

The backyard, facing west, was still cloaked in shadow, untouched by the morning sun.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

For three days, Sakutaro was away from the apartment on a neighborhood association trip. Although called a trip, it was really more of a handyman’s job. With 70% of the participants being elderly, he had gone along to assist and take care of them.

The events of that night remained untouched, left in the same way as when they had parted that morning.

Tsumugi had no intention of revisiting them and repeatedly reminded himself that he mustn’t.

Tsugumi admonished himself. What happened was, in its own way, an accomplishment for someone as inept at romance as he was. And yet, why did it feel so overwhelmingly sad? He was usually someone who overthought things, cornering himself into spirals of unnecessary reflection. Now, however, he found himself running from the question of why am I this sad?—running as if his life depended on it.

That night, Sakutaro had been standing on a precarious ledge, teetering on the edge of something Tsugumi couldn’t fully grasp. It was Tsugumi’s own wish to protect him, even if just a little. He hadn’t deluded himself into thinking that sharing his body could achieve that. Still, if it helped, even slightly, wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that the point from the beginning?

Colored light rained down from a stained-glass window set high above—red, blue, yellow, vibrant hues cascading to the floor. Lying flat on his back on the tatami mats beneath that shifting brilliance, Tsugumi wondered if God existed.

If God does exist, please don’t move anything further.

Sakutaro had given him so many beautiful things.

Things born outside the realm of romance—kindness, gentleness, undefinable fragments of light.

Beautiful things should be left as they are. That is the right thing to do.

Doing the right thing requires strength.

That truth applies to everything in this world.

As the light gradually shifted with the passing time, Tsugumi slowly adjusted his body, following its path.

Bathed in those radiant beams, he wished desperately to erase the feelings that had been born in his heart.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

“The piece you wrote the other day is getting great feedback,” said Nakanishi, his voice brimming with excitement from across the meeting table. Apparently, Tsugumi’s novel, published in last month’s issue of Shinpa, was being well received.

“I think this might really boost sales for the new book.”

“Do you think so?”

The urge to hope clashed with the fear of being disappointed again.

With the first print run already reduced, the fate of the new release seemed precarious. If it didn’t sell, things could get dire. While the editorial team’s enthusiasm was heartening, the sales department’s cold calculations carried more weight. At worst, Tsugumi could be dropped. Plenty of writers had vanished this way—first disappearing from magazines, then ceasing to release new works entirely. Trying to recall their names would bring only the faintest hints of familiarity; their obscurity was the story of their fate.

After briefly discussing the next magazine project, Tsugumi parted ways with Nakanishi. Outside, the afternoon heat felt suffocating, thick as a physical presence. Waiting at a crosswalk for the signal to change, Tsugumi’s gaze wandered to the man standing beside him. His tailored suit was immaculate, its sharp lines defying the oppressive summer humidity. A quick glance revealed it was Shinjin.

Shinjin noticed him too, his eyes widening slightly before a smile broke through.

“It’s been a while. It’s rare to see you out and about like this, Tsumugi. Were you at a meeting?”

He knows me too well.

The light changed, and they began walking side by side, naturally falling into step.

“It’s been so hot lately. Summer’s brutal for salarymen.”

“You still won’t take off your jacket, huh?”

Shinjin had always said that removing his jacket, even in the sweltering heat, made him feel sloppy. No matter how careful he was, the sweat would cling to his shirt. Looking at him now, unchanged, Tsugumi felt a pang. Even after their breakup, Shinjin’s world remained steadfastly intact. If only he’d allowed himself to loosen up a bit—maybe then Tsugumi could have felt he’d left some kind of mark. Or was that kind of validation even more pitiful?

“I saw you the other day,” Tsugumi said.

“Really? Where? You should’ve said hi.”

“You were with a woman.”

For just a moment, Shinjin’s response lagged.

“Was that… your fiancée, maybe?”

“Well… maybe, eventually.”

His vague reply, neither confirmation nor denial, could have been interpreted as kindness—or cowardice.

“Good for you. Wishing you happiness,” Tsugumi said.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? We’ve already split. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He smiled faintly, but his chest ached. Acceptance didn’t come easily, and celebrating someone’s new romance—especially an ex’s—always required time.

“What about you, Tsugumi?”

The question caught him off guard, and an image of Sakutaro’s face flashed in his mind.

“There’s someone I’m curious about.”

“What?”

Shinjin turned to him, startled. It was the first time since the breakup that he’d shown such an unguarded reaction. Quickly regaining his composure, he offered a strained smile and asked, “Are you happy now?”

“Yeah, in my own way.”

It wasn’t a lie. There were small joys in life. But those small joys were always vulnerable to being overturned by some unexpected accident or event. The thought struck him as oddly amusing, and he laughed genuinely for the first time during their conversation.

“You’ve lightened up, Tsumugi.”

Shinjin had misunderstood something, but Tsugumi didn’t bother correcting him. With a simple “See you,” they parted ways.

After walking for a while, he turned to look back, but Shinjin was already lost in the sea of businessmen in the office district. Turning forward again, he resumed his steps, his mind swirling with thoughts.

He had once believed he would spend his life with Shinjin. They had talked about someday buying a house, about having a dog and a cat. But all those dreams had disappeared, as if they had never existed, like fleeting illusions.

"See you," he thought, trying to imagine the next ten years of his life. But he couldn’t.

Even if he was alive today, tomorrow was uncertain. That was the hard truth of life.

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep being a writer. And if he couldn’t, he’d have to find other work. But he had no idea what else he could do. Writing had been the foundation of his life, and with that foundation now unsteady, it was only natural that his vision of the future was shaky.

As for love—he realized it, too, was withering, much like his career. He couldn’t picture replacing Shinjin with Sakutaro, or anyone else for that matter.

Tsumugi wasn’t the type to frequent gay bars, and working from home gave him few opportunities to meet people. Even for straight men and women, finding someone new became harder as they got older. For someone like him, the odds of meeting a partner felt impossibly slim.

Assuming he lived until seventy, he had about thirty-five years left. If luck was on his side, maybe he’d meet someone wonderful. But if he spent the rest of his life alone, the loneliness would be unimaginable, especially without any family.

At the very least, it’d be better to have lots of friends.

He wasn’t great at talking to people or handling lively places, but he couldn’t afford to let that stop him. He would start going out more, meeting people, and among them, surely, there would be someone who clicked with him.

If he could remain friends with Sakutaro, that would be enough.

As friends, he and Sakutaro could build a good relationship. Feelings didn’t have a set form, after all. If he poured them into the container labeled "friendship," they would eventually take that shape.

Things would work out. Probably. Maybe. Surely.

Encouraging himself with these thoughts, Tsumugi suddenly stopped in his tracks.

It was a lie. Feelings weren’t that simple.

He knew that. Even so, he wanted to stay close to Sakutaro. Even if it was just as friends, he wanted to keep talking about the little, inconsequential things.

In that case, he needed to let that night’s incident go.

What did Sakutaro think? Knowing how earnest he was, Sakutaro was probably worrying about it even now. Maybe it would be better if Tsumugi was the one to suggest they remain friends.

As the afternoon wore on, the heat intensified. Tsumugi’s gaze landed on a chic ice cream cart stationed in the office district. It must have been making rounds through the area, and in this heat, it was attracting not just young women but middle-aged businessmen, too. Tsumugi bought himself a vanilla cone.

Walking toward the subway station, he licked it once. It was cold and sweet.

"…Hang in there," he murmured to himself.

When he looked up, the sky was a brilliant blue. The summer cumulus clouds were dazzlingly white, as if they glowed in place, their heaviness giving the illusion that they could be sat upon like cushions.

Stretching as if to reach the sky, he spread his arms wide. The cone slipped from his hand, and the ice cream fell with a wet splat onto the pavement.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

When Tsumugi returned home, he saw a pair of navy deck shoes at the apartment entrance—Sakutaro's shoes.

“I like onsen manju because they’re bite-sized,” Ellie’s voice drifted from Sakutaro’s room, the door left open.

“I’ll take the cookies! Cookies, cookies!” Ichirou’s excited voice chimed in as people began to file out of the room, each carrying souvenirs. Seto gestured toward Sakutaro’s room and said, “He brought back goodies.”

“Welcome back,” Tsugumi called through the crack in the door. Sakutaro turned to look at him, surrounded by scattered clothes and souvenir bags—evidently in the middle of unpacking. He smiled softly when he saw Tsugumi.

“Thanks. I brought something for you, too,” Sakutaro said.

At that, Tsugumi stepped inside with a polite, “Excuse me.”

“I spent a while deciding what you might like best,” Sakutaro said, handing him a set of postcards. They were watercolor illustrations of morning glories and watermelons, rendered in delicate, soft hues. Tsugumi said he’d put them up in front of his desk, and Sakutaro looked pleased.

“I’m sorry for leaving things so messy while I was away,” Sakutaro said suddenly, his tone serious. Tsugumi’s heart skipped.

“I know it’s a bit late to face this now, but—"

"It’s fine. I wasn’t exactly clear with my words, either. But as for me—"

Tsumugi wanted to keep their friendship alive.

“I hope we can stay good friends from here on out,” Sakutaro said, cutting Tsugumi off.

Hearing it said first caught Tsugumi off guard.

He had been worried that Sakutaro, being kind and sincere, might not be able to express those feelings himself. But hearing it so plainly left Tsumugi shaken. It meant there truly was no chance for anything beyond friendship. The fact that he felt hurt, even though he had planned to say the same thing, made him feel a little pathetic.

“Of course. Let’s stay friends,” Tsugumi replied, managing what he hoped was a good-natured smile. But inside, he felt hollow.

“Thanks for the souvenir,” he said, holding the postcards and getting up to leave.

“Wait. There’s more I need to say.”

Tsumugi tilted his head in confusion.

“There’s something I really need you to hear,” Sakutaro said, his face on the verge of tears.

“…Alright, I’m listening,” Tsumugi said, sinking back into his seat. “But if this is an apology about that night, I don’t want to hear it—what happened wasn’t one-sided. I had a choice, too. You didn’t force me into anything. So if it’s about that…”

At that, Sakutaro’s expression shifted into something unreadable. He laughed lightly, but it didn’t look like laughter at all.

“Why is it,” Sakutaro began, his voice low and tight, “that when I’m with you, I always feel like I’m being forgiven?”

“That’s not…”

“I mean it,” he said, interrupting. “I love your face, Tsugumi. When you smile, your eyes narrow like crescent moons. It’s so gentle—and sometimes, it looks like you’re on the verge of tears. It’s not overwhelming; it’s comforting. People like me can feel at ease with that. You remind me of what people call the compassion of a Buddha. Like you’re saying, ‘Even if you’re worthless, it’s okay for you to be here.’ That’s how your novels made me feel, too.”

Sakutaro tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. A semi-circular stained-glass window, just like the one in Tsugumi’s room, cast soft, multicolored light between them.

“This scar on my head is from an accident three years ago,” Sakutaro said suddenly.

“An accident?” Tsugumi’s voice wavered, his unease growing.

“I hit my head hard. It broke. My brain, I mean.”

“...Broke?”

“It’s surprisingly easy for something to break,” Sakutaro said, his voice so quiet it sent a shiver down Tsugumi’s spine.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

That day, Sakutaro was rushing to an appointment with a client, running across the street just as the pedestrian light was about to turn red. As he crossed, a motorcycle suddenly emerged from behind a parked truck and struck him. By then, the light had already turned green, and the motorcyclist hadn’t felt the need to stop

The only visible injury was a cut on the back of his head from hitting the asphalt. His brainwaves showed no abnormalities, and everyone—including Sakutaro, his family, and friends—laughed it off as a stroke of luck.

But the signs began small.

On New Year’s, a postcard arrived from a coworker featuring a photo of a marshmallow-like baby. The sender’s name was listed alongside their spouse’s and the baby’s—Reina. Sakutaro remembered attending the coworker’s wedding, so he knew the wife, but he hadn’t realized they’d had a child.

When he brought it up after the holidays, his coworker laughed.

“I told you last year when the baby was born! The whole department even pitched in for a gift. Come on, man—what about you? Still single? You should start thinking about it. Having a kid gives your life real purpose.”

His coworker clapped him on the shoulder, and Sakutaro laughed it off with a vague agreement. He couldn’t love women, so marriage and children weren’t even on the horizon for him. But as long as he had a partner to spend his life with, that was enough. Rather than lament what made him different, he told himself to embrace it. At the time, his thoughts drifted in that direction, and he overlooked the real problem.

Next, he got a complaint from accounting about late expense reports. Opening his drawer, he found a pile of receipts he’d completely forgotten during the busy season. The nagging from accounting was irritating, but I guess being meticulous with the money is probably for the best, he thought with misplaced resignation.

The third incident was harder to shrug off. He completely forgot about an estimate he was supposed to have finalized by the weekend. Luckily, it was only the final review, so it wasn’t a catastrophic mistake, but the close call left him shaken.

“When you’re just getting comfortable with your work, that’s when you mess up the most. Stay focused,” a senior colleague told him as Sakutaro apologized. But even then, he felt something was wrong. Everyone makes careless mistakes now and then, but weren’t there too many of them lately? Maybe I really am getting complacent, he thought.

Right. Time to reset and focus.

But the worst mistake came just as he’d resolved to do better.

At work for a client that accounted for one-third of the quarterly revenue, Sakutaro oversaw part of a construction project for a major shopping center. He completely missed a change in the delivery schedule, planning based on the original timeline rather than the updated deadline. The oversight became clear only as the deadline approached, when a discussion with the client didn’t align.

Sakutaro was only responsible for a section of the project, but his error forced the division manager to travel to the site to apologize personally. The construction industry is not known for its patience, and the client’s team—big, rough men—berated him harshly. Sakutaro stood there in a daze, enduring the barrage of scolding.

How could I forget something as crucial as a deadline change?

A paranoid thought crossed his mind: Could this be the client shifting blame onto me?

It felt like a plot out of a suspense drama, yet it was the only explanation that made sense in the moment. Desperate for clarity, he turned to the junior employee who sat next to him. But the answer came hesitantly, full of regret:

“I’m sorry. I heard you, Kouya-san. You talked about the schedule change on the phone.”

In his junior’s eyes, Sakutaro saw a mix of guilt, sympathy—and a faint glimmer of disdain.

That night, for the first time in his life, Sakutaro drank until he passed out. Everyone makes mistakes, he told himself. But blaming others? Is this who I am now?

And yet, he truly couldn’t remember. Everyone else could recall the change, but in his mind, it was as if the information had vanished completely.

What was the first sign? The coworker’s baby? Forgetting to submit receipts to accounting? Forgetting the Japanese sweets his grandfather had asked him to bring home? Overlooking the deadline for submitting an estimate? Telling a junior colleague he’d contact them by evening, only to forget and leave them working late for no reason?

And now—this.

It wasn’t just forgetting. The memories were completely gone, wiped clean. Why? How? What was happening inside his head? As the thought took hold, the hand pouring his drink faltered.

My head?

With a trembling hand, Sakutaro gingerly touched the back of his head. The external wound had healed long ago, but what about inside? What had changed there? The lively chatter of the bar around him faded as a cold chill enveloped him.

The following week, he took a day off and went in for a comprehensive medical examination. No abnormalities were found. But the fact remained: he was experiencing unmistakable episodes of memory loss. The doctors concluded that it was likely linked to the head trauma from the accident. Sakutaro had braced himself for this possibility, so he managed to hold it together—at first.

"Please treat this immediately. It’s affecting my work. I can’t handle this," he pleaded.

The doctor gave him a calm smile—clinical and devoid of any warmth, the kind that made Sakutaro’s skin crawl. Then came the disheartening verdict: Let’s monitor the situation for now. With those words, the thread of his composure snapped. Monitor it? There was no time for that. At this very moment, he might be forgetting something crucial. Tomorrow, he could make another mistake at work.

“Kouya-san, please calm down. This may be temporary. It’s been over six months since the accident, and I don’t yet have a full picture of your current condition. I can’t prescribe treatment without understanding the situation better. Come back in a week and tell me, in as much detail as possible, what happens during that time.”

Sakutaro clenched his fists and nodded repeatedly. “Yes. Yes.”

For the next week, nothing went wrong at work. Riding the train home that Friday evening, he felt a wave of relief. Maybe he had overthought things. Maybe it really was temporary, as the doctor had suggested. At his next appointment, he reported that nothing significant had occurred. The doctor nodded with a reassuring smile and scheduled another visit for the following week.

But the week after, a mistake happened. He forgot to hand over part of a file to the sales assistant. It was a small oversight, hardly consequential, yet it gnawed at him. He went around the office asking everyone to let him know immediately if any issues arose because of it. That Friday, his supervisor invited him out for drinks.

“You’ve got something on your mind, don’t you? If it’s about the recent mistake, let it go. Everyone screws up big time once or twice. When I was in my second year—” The supervisor launched into a story about his own blunders, trying to reassure him.

Sakutaro was grateful. But the truth was too frightening to share. How do you tell someone you have an illness with no effective treatment?

The most Sakutaro could do was follow the doctor’s advice: talk to people regularly, use his hands more, keep his brain active, and try not to dwell on it. That was all he could manage.

For now, his memory lapses were relatively minor. But what about the future? Would it stay this way, or would it worsen? And if it did, how much? Would it remain small things, or would he start forgetting bigger pieces of his life?

Would I forget the people around me? Friends? Family? The name of the dog I once had? My first love’s name? Winning the soccer championship?

Would he lose it all—and still be himself? Or would the final blow come when he forgot who he was entirely?

The fear was so overwhelming he wanted to scream.

From that day onward, Sakutaro began writing everything down. Big or small, he took notes on anything that could be forgotten. Yet at client meetings, it was impossible to jot down everything in the moment. He focused intently on listening, planning to write things down afterward. But he became so consumed by the effort of remembering that he couldn’t engage in lighthearted conversation. Even when a client cracked a joke, he couldn’t respond naturally. Conversations that once flowed easily turned rigid, and his reputation among clients suffered.

In the sales world, success wasn’t just measured by technical performance but also by how well one could bond with clients over non-work topics. Sakutaro’s inability to do so began to cost him.

Fear of forgetting made him hyper-focused during meetings but left him incapable of relaxation. His sleep became restless. Even lying in bed, he felt compelled to recall every detail of the day and cross-check his notebook to ensure nothing was overlooked. But it was impossible to document every moment of a 24-hour period. Inevitably, small mistakes crept in. And each one sent him into a spiral. He compulsively double-checked things with his assistant and junior colleagues, who grew increasingly annoyed. Slowly, Sakutaro became isolated within the office.

One day, his manager summoned him for a private conversation. That was when Sakutaro could no longer hide his condition. What had started as mild forgetfulness had escalated, and the resulting anxiety had even led to a prescription for psychiatric medication.

When his manager gently suggested he take some time off, Sakutaro felt the strength drain from his legs. In the construction industry—a tough, male-dominated field—being advised to take a leave of absence was tantamount to being asked to leave. No matter how supportive the benefits at a large company, the unspoken rule was clear: the weak get pushed out. The suggestion was framed delicately, as though it were entirely his decision, but the implication was unmistakable.

His family echoed the sentiment, urging him to take a break. When Sakutaro had confided in his parents about his condition, they had been visibly shaken.

“You’ll get better. Just take your mind off it,” his father had said.

“Maybe a vacation would help,” his mother had suggested.

“This is all in your head. You just need to stay strong.”

Their concern was genuine, but their words only drove Sakutaro further into a corner. It was his grandfather who stepped in to mediate. Recognizing that his parents’ well-meaning encouragement was suffocating him, his grandfather offered to take Sakutaro in for a while, removing him from their home.

Even after moving into the apartment, though, little changed. He filed for a leave of absence and began attending weekly appointments for memory tests and counseling. That was his life now. With no daily responsibilities, there was nothing to forget—nothing to worry about forgetting. But there was also nothing to occupy his thoughts except the illness itself.

Before the accident, Sakutaro had dreams and hopes. He believed that with hard work, he could achieve them.

But now? His broken mind leaked memories like a dripping faucet. He had stopped meeting friends. He didn’t have a partner. He’d once been in a long-term relationship with someone from university, but their busy lives as working adults had created a rift, and they’d drifted apart. There had been someone else he was interested in recently, but it hadn’t progressed beyond friendship. The idea of involving someone in his struggles felt selfish, so he told himself it was better this way.

That was a lie. He wasn’t avoiding love out of altruism; he was terrified of being abandoned. Just as the company had let him go, he feared anyone he loved would eventually do the same. He wasn’t actually being rejected, but it felt like rejection. That feeling—it was part of his illness.

Sakutaro’s life had flipped over like an Othello piece, black side up, in an instant.

It was during this period that he stumbled upon Tsugumi’s novel.

He found it in the counseling waiting room, left behind by someone else. The title caught his eye: Yoru, Hikaru (The Night, It Shines).

It stirred a faint curiosity in him—his first in a long while.

For months, nothing had moved him. Not people, not the music he once loved, not the films he used to watch, not even the gym he had frequented. His life had become like a coiled rope, slack and lifeless.

That small spark of interest was the first thread of hope.

The first Tsugumi novel Sakutaro read was about a man with an obsessive cleanliness disorder. Wet tiles, public toilets, faucets, handrails—gradually, the list of places he couldn’t go and things he couldn’t touch grew longer and longer. He became increasingly isolated from society. The protagonist’s suffocating descent mirrored Sakutaro’s own circumstances so closely that he stopped reading halfway through. But eventually, he was compelled to pick it up again, cautiously turning the pages.

It felt like a prophecy, a book foretelling his own future.

By the end, the protagonist’s obsessive disorder didn’t improve—in fact, it worsened. But he found happiness within the small, one-meter radius of his life. Curled in a fetal position, eyes closed, he slept deeply for the first time. It wasn’t a resolution in the conventional sense. In some ways, it wasn’t even salvation. And yet, the sense of tranquility suffusing those final pages was undeniable. Miserable, but happy.

Why did it leave him feeling so comforted? Sakutaro couldn’t articulate it clearly.

Perhaps it was the realization that even in the midst of suffering, life continues. That even a life like his could be worth living. That he was allowed to exist. Maybe that’s what it was. If this had been before his accident, Sakutaro likely wouldn’t have understood it. He might’ve dismissed it as just a bleak story or skimmed over it, pretending to grasp the idea that happiness comes in many forms.

But at that moment, Sakutaro couldn’t simply forget it or move on.

Since becoming ill, he’d been gripped by the belief that he couldn’t remain “here.” He needed to move forward, to escape as quickly as possible. But Tsugumi’s novel had depicted the very “here” that Sakutaro had been so desperate to leave. And for the first time, he found himself pausing.

Unable to ignore it, Sakutaro lingered in his “here.” He began helping his grandfather tend the vegetable garden. He replaced burnt-out lightbulbs in the apartment’s hallway and entrance. He repaired the gate and patched the roof. Gradually, he started joining gatherings with the other residents.

One day, a nearby elderly neighbor living alone asked him to tidy up their garden. With nothing else to do, Sakutaro agreed. On his way out, the neighbor thanked him, saying, “You’ve been such a help.” The feeling those words gave him was indescribable.

After that, Sakutaro started his handyman service.

He worked within the limits of what he could manage, always jotting down appointments and tasks in his notebook. It wasn’t perfect—sometimes, like recently, he’d forget something. But even so, he remained in this “here.” Not because he was trapped, but because he chose to stay.

Previous TOC Next