Goodnight, See You Tomorrow: Chapter 7

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"I was saved by your novels, Tsugumi," Sakutaro said quietly, his voice calm as he finished his story.

"And yet, of all things, I forgot the promise I made to you."

Tsugumi couldn’t find any words. When it mattered most, his voice always failed him.

"I’ve read all your novels. I imagined what kind of person you might be, searched online for book signings and interviews. That’s why I was so surprised when we met, and so happy to be able to help you in any way I could. I even found myself thanking MuuMuu for the connection."

Sakutaro sat, his gaze lowered, his hands slowly opening and closing in a repetitive motion.

"If I’d been my old self, I’d have fallen for you immediately."

Open. Close. Open again.

"But if I’d been my old self, I never would’ve read your novels in the first place."

He looked up, his eyes meeting Tsugumi’s.

"I’m not going to fall in love with anyone anymore."

For a moment, Tsugumi forgot to breathe. His hands clenched tightly on his lap.

"I’m managing for now, but who knows how things will progress? My condition might worsen. If that happens, it would be cruel to the person I loved to be forgotten by me."

The faint smile that had been lingering on Sakutaro’s face vanished, extinguished as if blown out like a candle.

Outside, the light had faded completely. The stained glass in the ceiling no longer cast its vibrant colors, leaving only the encroaching darkness of night.

“I’m scared.”

Sakutaro’s words from that night echoed in Tsugumi’s ears as he shut his eyes tightly. The thought was overwhelming, shaking him to his core.

If it were him, he might not be able to bear it.

“I wonder what the future holds. I think about it sometimes too.”

“I guess it'll work out somehow.”

Sakutaro had said that while tending to the garden. At the time, Tsugumi had felt a subtle distance between them. Sakutaro had family, wealth, and a sense of security—a foundation that allowed him to believe things would work out. Tsugumi, with no close relatives to speak of, thought Sakutaro couldn’t possibly understand his anxieties. But the man who had smiled so brightly while offering encouragement was living in a far harsher reality than Tsugumi could have imagined.

“It would be cruel to the person I loved to be forgotten by me.”

Sakutaro had said it so plainly. And he was right. It was cruel. To be forgotten by the one you love is heartbreaking.
But to choose not to love in the first place, to make that kind of resolution—that was even more heartbreaking.

"...Sakutaro," Tsugumi said, his voice breaking the silence.

A single tear fell onto the delicate morning glory on the postcard in his hands.

Sakutaro straightened suddenly, sitting formally on his knees as he turned to face Tsugumi.

"As a man, I’ve done something irresponsible. I deeply apologize," he said, bowing low with his hands and forehead pressed to the tatami mat.

"Stop, Sakutaro," Tsugumi blurted, reaching out to lift Sakutaro’s head.

"What happened wasn’t just on you—it was mutual," he said firmly.

"...I’m sorry," Sakutaro said, a faint, strained smile pulling at his lips.

"You don’t have to force yourself to smile," Tsugumi said softly.

He had always thought of Sakutaro as someone with a gentle smile, someone who brought peace to those around him. But now—now it was too much.

Inside Tsugumi, a storm of emotions churned. It wasn’t just sadness or pain anymore; it had crossed into anger. How could someone as kind as Sakutaro carry such a burden? How could this be fair?

With a rough swipe, Tsugumi wiped his tears and moved closer, kneeling before Sakutaro.

"It’s okay," he said and pulled Sakutaro into a tight embrace.

" Tsugumi, I’m…"

"It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything else," Tsugumi whispered, holding Sakutaro’s head against his chest.

"We’re friends," he said, his voice steady but final.

The feelings that had begun to bloom within him were cut off with a sharp mental snip.

That fragile bud, bearing the names of love and romance, might have blossomed into something beautiful in a different time, in a different place. But it didn’t matter now. Sakutaro’s hands were already laden with heavy burdens. There was no room for him to carry a bouquet someone else had handed him.

"I can’t do much, but…"

He had never felt so powerless before. The realization that he had so little to offer gnawed at him with a sharp, unfamiliar frustration. But there was no time, no luxury to wallow in that helplessness. He had to find something—anything—among the things he did have that could be of use to Sakutaro. There must be something.

"...I'll write novels," he said at last, arriving at the one answer that made sense. If he couldn’t save himself, then how could he ever hope to save anyone else? But Sakutaro had told him that Tsugumi's novels had saved him. And that simple, unexpected truth had, in turn, saved Tsugumi.

So—

"I’ll write. A lot," he said firmly.

There was no time left for tears.

"I’ll keep writing," he repeated, his resolve hardening.

This love, Tsugumi realized, would remain in his heart alone, an unspoken secret. The pain of that decision would no doubt cut deeply, but it was the only way he could stay by Sakutaro’s side. The burdens Sakutaro already carried were far too heavy. The last thing Tsugumi wanted was to add to them.

The fabric of Tsugumi's shirt grew damp. Sakutaro was crying silently, his tears soaking through, seeping into Tsugumi’s chest, into his very soul.

Life had always been filled with struggles. Time and again, despair had crept in, and though Tsugumi had no religion, he had found himself praying in those moments of helplessness. But this time, he wasn’t praying for himself.

If a god really existed—please, Tsugumi thought, take everything I have left and use it for Sakutaro. Save him. Give him enough salvation for both of us.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The sound of a light truck’s engine came through the open window. Tsugumi stopped typing on his computer and crawled across the tatami mat to the windowsill.

“Welcome back, Sakutaro,” he called, leaning out.

“I’m back,” Sakutaro replied, looking up at the second floor through the white geraniums in black brass pots on the window railing.

“Sakutaro, I think it’s time to harvest the pumpkins. And the okra too.”

“Got it. I’ll take care of it before lunch,” Sakutaro said as he headed toward the vegetable garden in the back. Tsugumi shut down his computer, reached for the straw hat he’d bought during the summer, but then reconsidered. It’s cooler today, he thought, putting it back before heading outside.

When he peered into the garden, Sakutaro was snipping at the pumpkins with a pair of scissors. He looked up from his work when Tsugumi approached. Beside him, a basket held three small pumpkins and a generous bundle of slender okra.

“Can I take some shiso leaves?” Tsugumi asked as he crouched beside a pumpkin, smaller than those harvested in summer, and ran his hand gently over it.

“What for?”

“For lunch. Yesterday, Nira-kun gave me some Koshihikari rice from Niigata. He said it came from his parents.”

“Ah, Nira-kun doesn’t cook, does he?”

“It’s such a waste. Niigata rice is amazing.”

“What’s for lunch?”

“Onigiri, of course. Plain salted rice balls, and grilled ones brushed with miso. I’ll put shiso leaves on top of the miso before grilling. My grandma used to make them for me.”

“That sounds incredible.”

“There’s enough for you, too.”

“Really? That’s awesome!” Sakutaro’s face lit up with a smile. Tsugumi, plucking shiso leaves nearby, found himself smiling back.

They decided on the menu as they went: the remnants of summer’s pumpkins would be steamed in the microwave with a touch of butter and soy sauce. The slender okra would be halved lengthwise and mixed with tomatoes and bonito flakes. They’d round it out with a simple clear egg soup.

By late September, with the weather cooling, Tsugumi and Sakutaro had grown accustomed to sharing meals more often. Picking vegetables together and chatting about what to cook had become a small but treasured part of the day.

“Tsugumi, are you free this afternoon?” Sakutaro asked suddenly.

“I am. Why?”

“MuuMuu ran away.”

“Again?”

“Yeah, again. She’s living her ‘Fifteen’s Night’ rebellion,” Sakutaro said, mockingly pressing his palms together as if in prayer. Tsugumi laughed and nodded.

“I’ve got to catch her before seven. I’m helping out with the city’s karaoke club tonight.”

“There’s a karaoke club?” Tsugumi asked.

“They rent out the city hall. I help with the equipment setup and stuff. Also, I’m the designated duet partner sometimes. I know a lot of the oldies that people like.”

Tsugumi recalled being surprised before at how many older songs Sakutaro knew for someone his age. It turned out to be a remnant of his days as a salesman; most of his clients had been older, so he’d studied hits from different decades to handle karaoke nights during business outings.

“I thought all that knowledge would be useless after I left the company, but not really.”

Sakutaro spoke casually, pulling up weeds as if it were idle chitchat. But Tsugumi knew how much suffering Sakutaro must have endured to reach this point.

The thought tightened Tsugumi’s chest, but he refrained from offering words of comfort or sympathy. Sakutaro had chosen to stand on his own. The best thing I can do is to stay quietly by his side, Tsugumi reminded himself.

Honestly, it wasn’t easy. It would be far less taxing to coddle him or cheer him up outright, he thought, suppressing the impulse. But for Sakutaro’s sake, Tsugumi resolved to remain steady, offering nothing more than silent companionship.

“Oh, a tiny cucumber,” Tsugumi remarked, spotting a small cucumber hiding in the shadows of the leaves while pulling out weeds.

“It’s so small. How should we eat it?” he asked. Sakutaro crossed his arms thoughtfully. Cooking wasn’t exactly his forte.

“How about tossing it with that penguin-branded chili oil Seto-san gave us?”

“That sounds good. If you’re making it, anything’s fine by me.”

“That’s a suspicious way of putting it.”

“I mean everything you make is delicious.”

As they talked, both of them reached for the cucumber at the same time, their fingers brushing against each other. Startled, they both pulled back as if burned, their gazes meeting. Calm down, Tsugumi silently told himself.

“I’ll go make lunch,” he said, deliberately standing up slowly. “How many rice balls do you want, Sakutaro?”

“Uh, three.”

“Eat more—four.”

“If I eat that much, I won’t be able to catch MuuMuu.”

“Let’s be honest. You’re not catching MuuMuu either way,” Tsugumi teased, smiling at Sakutaro, who pouted in mock frustration. Then he rounded the building and headed for the front entrance. Slipping off his sandals, he stepped into the house. His bare feet touched the cool hallway floor, and he paused for a moment, savoring the sensation.

The brief touch of Sakutaro’s fingers still lingered, an inexplicable warmth that pulsed like a heartbeat in his fingertips. It was as if his heart had migrated there, throbbing insistently. Tsugumi walked to the tiled, Islamic-style washroom and turned the brass faucet. He let the cool water flow over his hands, relishing the relief from the lingering heat.

Since that night they’d spent together, they had been avoiding physical contact, navigating around each other like overly cautious germaphobes.

We’re just friends, Tsugumi reminded himself, as he had said to Sakutaro. He had drawn that line, and crossing it—or moving away from it—wasn’t an option. It had to remain exactly where it was.

“Tsugumi-san?”

Startled, he turned to see Kudou standing there. He must have returned without Tsugumi noticing.

“You’re wasting water,” Kudou muttered, turning off the still-running faucet.

“Kudou-san, why are you home on a weekday?”

“Just wrapped up proofing.”

Looking closer, Tsugumi noticed the dark circles under Kudou’s eyes.

“Good work. Please take it easy,” Tsugumi said with a polite nod and began to leave, but Kudou stopped him.

“Tsugumi-san, this might seem sudden, but do you have any interest in writing a script?”

“Script?” Tsugumi echoed, confused.

“It’s for a short serialization in a women’s manga magazine. The artist is Komine Yako. She’s a big fan of your novels and wants to adapt one of your works into a manga. When she found out I lived in the same apartment as you, she asked me to introduce you.”

“A... shoujo manga?”

The idea had never crossed his mind.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

With its easy-to-follow charm, dazzling drama, and tumultuous romance, Paradise Doll had become a monumental hit in the world of shoujo manga. Adaptations had flourished: anime, TV dramas, and even film series in both Japan and South Korea. What kind of woman could create such a phenomenon? Tsugumi wondered nervously. Perhaps she favored frilly, cute fashion? Or maybe she leaned toward luxurious designer brands? Imagining this only made him more anxious.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Komine Yako.”

The author of Paradise Doll who appeared at their meeting place, a cozy café, was not a woman at all. Komine Yako was a slender man with strikingly long blonde hair (!). He looked to be around Tsugumi’s age or slightly younger. Despite probably earning a fortune, Komine wore a slack-collared Calimero T-shirt.

It seemed that Komine had also assumed Tsugumi was a young woman, leaving both of them momentarily surprised. After a mutual exchange of awkward nods and pleasantries, Tsugumi inwardly cursed Kudou for not at least mentioning Komine’s gender in advance.

Seated and tense, Tsugumi glanced at the waitress who came to take their order. He asked for coffee, while Komine peered at the menu with a furrowed brow before asking with utmost seriousness:

“Is it okay if I have a cream soda?”

When Tsugumi nodded, Komine beamed like a child. “I don’t drink coffee or tea,” he explained. “I like lightly carbonated sodas and strawberry or coffee-flavored milk. But not plain milk. Oh, except vanilla ice cream—I love that.”

As the waitress brought a glass of green soda water topped with a round scoop of vanilla ice cream, Komine peered into it with a cheerful expression. His long, delicate fingers held a slender spoon, his pinky finger extended gracefully, and from the subtle gestures and mannerisms in his speech, Tsugumi suspected that Komine might be what some would call an onee—men who display effeminate characteristics or openly embrace traditionally feminine behavior. It was too personal to ask outright, so Tsugumi pretended not to notice while feeling a faint sense of kinship as a fellow minority.

Talking with Komine was unexpectedly enjoyable. Manga and novels—though the mediums differed, they both revolved around creativity, and the conversation never ran dry. Then Komine brought up something surprising.

“Eighty percent of what a creator wants to write doesn’t align with what sells.”

“Even for someone as successful as you?” Tsugumi asked, startled.

“Absolutely,” Komine replied, nodding emphatically. “What about you? Don’t you struggle with that dilemma?”

“I struggle with it constantly,” Tsugumi answered firmly.

He wasn’t exaggerating. The clash between personal passion and market demands was a challenge he had faced again and again. Writing for commercial success didn’t always guarantee sales, and works he doubted sometimes unexpectedly resonated with readers. Experience didn’t ensure improvement; even after ten or twenty years, the blank page still brought the same tension and uncertainty as in his early days. Writing alone every day, Tsugumi’s real-world communication skills had deteriorated. Exhaustion often led to despair: This is garbage. I never want to write again. Sometimes, he even questioned what he was doing with his life.

“And yet, Komine-sensei, you love manga,” Tsugumi ventured.

“I love it,” Komine affirmed. “Otherwise, I couldn’t keep going. It’s too damn hard.”

Komine furrowed his brows in genuine distaste, and Tsugumi couldn’t help but laugh. Good. If we didn’t agree on that, working together wouldn’t be possible.

“But as for Paradise Doll, I’m really getting tired of it.”

“Well, it’s already up to seventeen volumes. Maybe it’s time for a break—”

“It was supposed to end at ten volumes,” Komine said with a sigh, stirring his cream soda.

Clearly, the series’ immense popularity had led to its prolongation.

“That author is our cash cow,” Kudou had said about Komine, his tone tinged with resignation.

Even being too successful comes with its own struggles, Tsugumi thought. Just as the thought crossed his mind, Komine lifted his gaze.

“I’ve been a fan of your novels for a long time,” Komine said. “I take great pride in my manga, but there’s also a world I admire, separate from my own, and I often wrestle with the gap between them. I know our styles are different, and that might make you uneasy, but I’m serious about this. Please, I hope you’ll consider it.”

Komine bowed his head. A wildly popular artist was bowing to a struggling novelist with genuine sincerity. Popularity aside, this person was confronting their craft head-on, grappling with creativity just as much as anyone else.

I think I can give it my all with this person.

“Thank you,” Tsugumi replied, bowing his own head in return. “Let’s work together.”

◇:-:◆:-:◇

When Tsugumi returned to the apartment, the door suddenly opened, and Sakutaro stepped out.

“Welcome back, Tsugumi-san. Look at this!”

Sakutaro held up a copy of the Shinpa magazine. On the cover, in bold letters, it read: Interview with Tsugumi Itou.

“You bought it? I would’ve given you a copy. Actually, you don’t even have to read it…” Tsugumi fumbled awkwardly, but Sakutaro ignored him and flipped the pages open wide.

“This photo is amazing. The crisp white shirt, the slicked-back hair—it’s retro and stylish. The black-and-white makes you look like an old-school literary master. It’s such a stoic vibe, totally fitting for you.”

Tsugumi felt heat rising to his ears. He’d known about the interview, of course, but no one had warned him there’d be a photoshoot. For the first time in his life, he’d been styled by a professional team, with a stylist, hair, and makeup, while discussing his latest book in front of a camera. It felt as though he’d drained a lifetime’s worth of social energy in one go.

“And Tsugumi-san giving an interview—that’s already a rare event.”

“Well, yeah, I had some things to think about.”

He gave a sheepish laugh and looked down. Writing novels was one thing, but talking about them? That was a different beast. Public speaking made him anxious, and he hated putting himself in the spotlight. Essays? He’d rejected every offer. He disliked exposing himself but harbored an undeniable desire to be recognized, funneling those feelings into his fiction instead.

I’ve been dodging this problem for years, Tsugumi admitted to himself. But I can’t run anymore.

There are people who must fight just to live an ordinary day. He wanted to stand beside someone like that, to support them. And if that was the case, he couldn’t allow himself to remain the same.

Recently, he’d been trying to broaden his work. Alongside the Shinpa interview, he’d accepted other media requests, even agreeing to have his photo taken—despite his embarrassment. He’d started taking on essays, book reviews, and minor writing gigs. The manga project he was collaborating on was part of this effort.

Little by little, I’ll grow stronger. I’ll plant deeper roots.

He wanted to be someone who could support Sakutaro if he stumbled. The anxieties that had once loomed over him—the fear of being alone, of having no family to rely on, or falling ill—felt like they were dissipating. For the first time, Tsugumi’s heart felt steady, like taut fabric stretched firm and unyielding.

“And also, No Bara was incredible,” Sakutaro said, referring to the title of Tsugumi’s latest book. It had just been released last week.

“You’ve already read it?”

“I bought it on the release day, but work had me tied up. I started it last night and couldn’t stop. Stayed up all night finishing it.”

He rubbed his tired eyes, blinking sleepily.

“It was so good. I kept wondering, ‘What was Tsugumi-san feeling when he wrote this?’ and ‘Is this what he thinks about?’ I couldn’t put it down.”

Tsugumi’s face flushed red.

“It’s just fiction. Not everything in it reflects me, you know.”

“I know, but I can’t help imagining.”

Tsugumi understood the sentiment. A story wasn’t entirely autobiographical, but it wasn’t entirely fabricated either. It existed somewhere in between.

“But that one scene made me laugh out loud.”

“Which one?”

“The one where the protagonist scolds the runaway dog. The way it tied into the lyrics of Jūgo no Yoru.”

“Oh, that one.”

Tsugumi chuckled. The scene had been inspired by Sakutaro’s stories about MuuMuu, the perpetually runaway cat. Once, Sakutaro had joked, “When I was younger, I could understand the impulse to steal a bike and ride off, but now I just think, Don’t take what isn’t yours. I wish MuuMuu would get to that point too.” Tsugumi had borrowed and adapted the line for the book.

“When I saw our conversation turned into a part of your novel, it felt so surreal,” Sakutaro said, his tone soft with amazement.

“Sorry for using it without asking,” Tsugumi replied.

“No, don’t apologize. It made my heart race—in a good way,” Sakutaro said, narrowing his eyes in a gentle smile. “It’s like, ‘Whoa, that’s me in there!’ Even though it’s not really me, just a character in your novel. But, you know… like, even if I were to forget that conversation—”

He suddenly paused, catching himself, and quickly laughed it off. “Sorry, that came out heavier than I meant.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Tsugumi frowned.

“Uh, I don’t know. It just sounded… intense,” Sakutaro said, trying to brush it off as a joke. Tsugumi, unimpressed, shot him a mock glare.

“People who say such silly things don’t get to know secrets,” Tsugumi teased.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m not telling,” Tsugumi said, turning toward the stairs.

“Wait!” Sakutaro grabbed the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry. Please, tell me. What’s going on?”

His eyebrows furrowed in a comically pleading expression, and Tsugumi chuckled softly. “Well, if you’re going to be that desperate…”

He leaned in and whispered near Sakutaro’s ear, “It’s about writing a manga script. You know Paradise Doll…?”

Sakutaro’s eyes widened. “Wait, you’re working on the script for Paradise Doll?”

Tsugumi pressed a finger to his lips, cautioning him. Unlike himself, Komine-sensei was a big name, and the project was being kept under wraps by the publisher. Understanding, Sakutaro gave a quick nod.

“That’s amazing. Your name might get a lot bigger!” he said enthusiastically.

“It’s a lot of pressure, though,” Tsugumi admitted.

“You’ll be fine. I really love your writing, Tsugumi-san.”

Tsugumi nodded with a quiet smile. It was daunting to think about how Komine-sensei’s fans might react to his work, or whether they’d even pick up a novel in the first place. The collaboration required careful alignment of their creative styles, and if done poorly, it could alienate his existing readers. It wasn’t all excitement—there was plenty of fear. But he didn’t want to let that fear stop him anymore.

“You never know until you try. I’ll give it my best.”

Even if the project didn’t go well, Sakutaro’s simple statement—“I really love your writing”—was enough to carry him forward. He wouldn’t rely on it, but he’d carry it like a small talisman under his shirt, close to his heart.

As Tsugumi mulled over this, he realized Sakutaro was watching him.

“What?”

“Lately, you’ve been so optimistic, Tsugumi-san.”

Tsugumi let out an embarrassed laugh, averting his gaze. “Well, you know. I’m getting older. Figured it’s time to pick up the pace. Took me a while to realize, though. And, well, I’ve had a little encouragement.”

“Encouragement? What kind?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Tsugumi deflected.

“Big deal or not, I want to know,” Sakutaro said, leaning in with a curious smile.

“Yesterday, I got a call from Nakanishi-san,” Tsugumi said.

“And?”

“He said No Bara is doing well.”

“It’s selling?”

“Well, they didn’t print a lot to begin with, so maybe that’s why. But apparently, bookstores are ordering more copies. It’s not a reprint yet, though, so really, it’s nothing major.”

“What’s a reprint?”

“When a book’s about to sell out, they print more.”

“That’s incredible!”

“No, it’s not at that level yet,” Tsugumi said, shaking his head.

“Do you think it could get there?”

“Hmm… maybe. Hard to say.”

Big-name authors sometimes saw reprints announced within a week of a book’s release, sometimes even before it officially hit shelves due to preorders. That wasn’t Tsugumi’s league. The additional orders might simply be because fewer copies were printed this time. Still, Nakanishi had mentioned that the short story Tsugumi published in Shinpa had been well-received, and maybe the interviews and other efforts had helped too.

Just then, Tsugumi’s phone buzzed in the back pocket of his pants. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect—it was Nakanishi. His chest fluttered with nervous anticipation.

“Sorry, let me take this,” Tsugumi said, stepping aside to answer.

Without preamble, Nakanishi launched into a rapid-fire explanation, barely pausing for breath. Tsugumi could only nod along, murmuring quiet acknowledgments. But as the conversation continued, his heartbeat quickened, and a flush crept across his cheeks.

"What was that about?" Sakutaro asked as soon as Tsugumi ended the call.

“…It happened,” Tsugumi murmured, still processing.

“Could it be?” Sakutaro leaned forward, anticipation in his voice.

“Yeah, a reprint.”

For a couple of seconds, they simply looked at each other before both threw their arms into the air and cheered. “We did it! We did it!” Their voices overlapped, and Tsugumi felt a lump forming in his throat, almost on the verge of tears. The reprint was modest—just an additional two thousand copies, offsetting a previous reduction of a thousand. Still, it added a thousand to the total, and it was his very first reprint in eight years of publishing. On top of that, Sakutaro was as excited as if it were his own accomplishment, which only deepened Tsugumi’s joy.

“This is amazing, Tsugumi-san. Congratulations!” Sakutaro said, his voice bright with pride.

“Thank you,” Tsugumi replied, his voice wobbling, making him feel slightly embarrassed. It was just a reprint, after all. But it was still his first, and it came when he was standing at the edge of a cliff.

“Nakanishi said the short story in Shinpa got good feedback. Normally, even when there’s positive buzz, it doesn’t translate into sales, so I wasn’t expecting much. But the interviews and articles seem to have helped, too.”

Apparently, female readership is growing, Nakanishi had told him. Photos of Tsugumi had been included in interviews for Shinpa and an online magazine, and Nakanishi said the response had been significant. Even more outlets had started reaching out for interviews.

“I didn’t realize you could clean up so well, Tsugumi,” the stylists and Nakanishi had joked during the photoshoot. He’d brushed it off as flattery. The professional styling and photography had polished his appearance somewhat, but as soon as he’d changed back into his usual clothes and hairstyle, not a single passerby had glanced his way.

Attention for his looks felt fleeting and unimportant. What mattered was if even a handful of those drawn in by his interviews became readers. If just one or two of them stayed, that was enough.

“…I have to keep working hard,” Tsugumi murmured, grounding himself.

“Yeah,” Sakutaro agreed with a nod, but then added with a wistful tone, “But Tsugumi-san, you’re starting to feel so far away.”

He opened the magazine again, smiling faintly at the photograph. “It’s you, but it’s not quite you,” he remarked. His narrowed eyes carried a serene, resigned quality, as though he’d come to terms with something beyond his reach. The sight felt like a sugar sculpture’s fragile spike twisting into Tsugumi’s chest. The sweetness melted away, leaving a faint but persistent sting.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tsugumi said firmly.

Sakutaro turned his gaze toward him.

“I’ll always be here. I like it here,” Tsugumi added.

Sakutaro’s expression shifted slightly, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Tsugumi quickly added, “This apartment. I like this apartment.”

There was a pause before Sakutaro echoed, “Yeah, me too. I like this apartment.”

Their words seemed to be about different things, but neither dared clarify. A heavy silence settled between them. To escape the weight of it, Tsugumi let his eyes wander to the tiled sink in the hallway. The autumn sunlight glanced off the worn brass faucet, forming a pool of light on the wooden floor.

“Tsugumi-san,” Sakutaro said, drawing his attention back. Their eyes met.

Sakutaro’s face was lined with hesitation, his expression pained. Slowly, he leaned closer. Instinctively, Tsugumi leaned in to meet him. Their faces drew nearer, and just as they were about to touch, the doorbell rang sharply.

Both of them flinched back.

“Mr. Kouya!” a voice called from the entrance, followed by the creak of the front door. “Sorry to interrupt! There’s a package here for Mr. Nira.”

“Oh, right, I’ll take it,” Sakutaro said, quickly heading to the door.

Tsugumi looked away from his retreating back and climbed the stairs to his room. Once inside, he shut the door and slumped to the floor, bathed in the colorful light streaming through the semicircular stained glass window.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

What would have happened if that delivery hadn’t come? The forbidden thought crept in unrestrained, and he tried to push it away.

He wanted to stay near Sakutaro, but the closer he was, the deeper his feelings grew. He wanted to touch him, and he felt that Sakutaro might share the same feelings. But to let those emotions evolve into love or romance was unthinkable.

As friends, they could remain together. That was the kind of bond they had.

There are relationships that can only exist if you keep them within a specific shape.

It was a painful truth, but a truth nonetheless. If the shape broke, everything would spill out and be lost. Tsugumi resolved to hold onto this form, to protect it, no matter what.

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