COLD HEART in NEWYORK: Chapter 12

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“The editor-in-chief of LION was raving about you.”

Today, Jessica wore a red coat that matched her hair.

“He said he could already tell from CRUX’s novelty campaigns that you had the qualities of a true model, but this confirmed it. Even putting aside the fact that the photos were taken by the famous Tohru, he said the shoot was incredible. He was thrilled—said he could see a story in every frame. They’re thinking about scouting you as a regular model for LION.”

The taxi was stuck in traffic, moving slower than walking pace. The sun had set, and now New York’s cityscape glowed with festive lights, vibrant like stained glass—though overwhelmingly crowded with Chinese signage.

“I’m not interested in modeling. I only did it because it was for CRUX’s promotion.”

…The shoot had wrapped at 6 p.m. Afterward, he contacted Jessica’s office and they shared a cab.

“There’s this amazing place in Chinatown. That’s where we’re meeting Masahiko.”

It was supposed to be about a ten-minute ride, but it had already taken thirty. Rogue’s headquarters were in Lower Manhattan, and CRUX’s store where Masahiko worked was in SoHo. Chinatown sat right between the two.

“Such a shame, really—you’ve got talent. But I’m sure the regular models at LION are relieved. Now they won’t have to worry about losing jobs to you. …Ah, there it is.”

They were still a few blocks away when Jessica said it would be faster to walk, so they got out of the cab early.

He’d heard of Chinatown before, but he hadn’t expected such a densely packed, intensely lived-in neighborhood. Not just restaurants, but shops selling cosmetics, clothes, shoes, books—all tightly lined up. Most signs were painted in vivid reds and yellows, so saturated they nearly hurt to look at. Paper lanterns swung out front, and everyone—whether sitting outside or walking the sidewalks—had Asian features.

It was oddly comforting to see so many familiar-looking faces, but it also made him wonder, Is this really still America? Then again, above the Chinese signage, the buildings were classic old-school New York, with external fire escapes clinging to brick facades like iron vines.

“That’s the place.”

Jessica pointed to a Chinese restaurant that looked like your average local diner in Japan. The red signboard was so faded, the name was almost illegible.

“Looks dirty.”

“But the food’s amazing.”

Contrary to the worn-out exterior, the inside was surprisingly spacious, stretching deep toward the back with high ceilings and a hollow echo. The floor was covered in vinyl tiles, some of which were peeling. There were about twenty tables, almost all full. Ninety percent of the customers were probably Chinese.

Masahiko was already there, seated in the back, sipping beer from a bottle.

The moment Akizawa saw him, the dingy restaurant melted from his mind. He felt like his feet lifted ten centimeters off the ground.

“Sorry, I started without you.”

When he noticed the two of them, Masahiko lifted the beer bottle slightly in greeting. His voice was light, but his cheeks were pale and tense. It was a strange expression.

“No worries. We got stuck in traffic—it was awful. We should’ve taken the subway,” Jessica said, taking the seat beside Masahiko at the four-person table.

Akizawa had wanted to sit there—but it wasn’t something he could ask her to switch over. So he sat opposite Masahiko instead.

“You order here by checking boxes on a sheet,” Jessica explained, picking up the order sheet. “Everything’s good, but you have to get the spring rolls and the shumai. They’re divine.”

She started listing dishes, holding the sheet, but honestly—Akizawa didn’t care about the food at all.

Masahiko was sitting across from him.

That was all that mattered.

“Just pick whatever,” he said.

As Jessica and Masahiko began chatting and checking off boxes on the order sheet, Akizawa sat quietly watching them.

It’s really him.

The memories surged back—the unbearable grief of believing Masahiko was dead, the way it had torn at his chest. And now, just watching him move, hearing his voice—it was almost too much. A tight warmth swelled in his throat, and he felt like he might start crying.

“Akizawa-san, what would you like to drink?” Jessica asked.

He liked alcohol and wanted to drink—but not beer. Beer was bitter.

“They have soda cocktails with Chinese liquor,” Masahiko murmured, still looking down.

He remembered. Masahiko knew he didn’t like bitter drinks, so he’d suggested something sweet.

That alone made Akizawa happy.

He went with that, and Jessica handed the completed sheet to a narrow-eyed server in a green apron.

The food came out strangely fast—like it had all been pre-made. Spring rolls, fried noodles, chili shrimp, soup dumplings… dish after dish was laid on the small table until the plates were practically overlapping. There was no space, so the only option was to start eating.

The place might’ve looked like a greasy little diner run by an auntie, but just like Jessica had said, the food was good. Even Akizawa, who normally wasn’t that interested in food, found his chopsticks moving on their own.

Jessica, in contrast to her slender frame, ate and drank with surprising gusto. Masahiko, however, kept refilling his beer and barely touched the food. He only picked at it now and then, and his hand holding the chopsticks was trembling slightly. Is he cold?

There didn’t seem to be any heating. Two kerosene heaters stood on the floor, but it wasn’t warm enough for Akizawa to remove his coat. Still, it wasn’t cold enough to make someone visibly shake, either.

“I didn’t realize you were CRUX’s image model,” Jessica said from her spot diagonally across the table.

“I’ve seen CRUX posters and novelties before, and I thought the photos were beautiful… but how should I put it? Tohru-san’s style is so distinctive, the whole photo felt like a piece of art. It drew my eye to the image as a whole, rather than to the individual.”

The CRUX advertisements Akizawa had shot during that first year—the year he thought Masahiko had died—were taken when he was painfully thin, almost unrecognizable from who he was now. There’d even been public debates over whether the campaign was art or exploitation.

“When Masahiko told me CRUX’s products would be featured in LION, I was really surprised,” Jessica went on. “It’s a men’s magazine published by the company I work for, after all. With Tohru-san shooting, I knew it would make waves.”

Masahiko had been working hard to boost CRUX’s visibility. He must really care about his job, Akizawa thought, watching him. But Masahiko kept his gaze lowered, so Akizawa couldn’t read his expression.

And Jessica… Jessica was the only one talking. Like a bird, endlessly chirping. Masahiko wasn’t saying anything at all. Akizawa wanted to speak with him, not her.

“I went to CRUX’s SoHo store yesterday,” Akizawa said, directing the words toward Masahiko.

But Masahiko didn’t look at him.

“It was already closed by the time I got there, though. I was so disappointed, I decided to head back to the hotel. But then some guy tried to steal the cab I hailed, and we almost got into a fight.”

“That’s how you hurt your hand?” Jessica asked—cutting in again.

Even though he was clearly talking to Masahiko.

“Yeah… it didn’t get to punching. I ran, but I fell and scraped my hands. I had a shoot the next day, and all I could think was—I can’t let anything happen to my face. I mean, I’m CRUX’s exclusive model now. I can’t afford to damage my face.”

He’d tried to show Masahiko—I care about CRUX too. I’m doing my best. But Masahiko didn’t even give him a nod. No reaction. He just kept sipping his beer, like he hadn’t heard a word.

“You wrote me that letter, remember? Please take care of CRUX. That’s why I’ve been working so hard—for CRUX.”

Masahiko’s cheek twitched, and he muttered, “Did I?”

Did he really forget? That letter had kept Akizawa alive. That one piece of paper had given him strength.

They were only having dinner as a group because Masahiko had said he was too nervous to meet alone. But even now, with most of the food gone from the table, Masahiko’s face remained stiff, unreadable. It was so awkward—so unnatural. Akizawa had hoped that talking would help ease the tension, but Masahiko wasn’t meeting him halfway.

As he nibbled a sesame ball, Akizawa glanced at Jessica.

When is she going to leave? Surely after the meal, she’d go home. And then he’d finally be alone with Masahiko.

The reason Masahiko was still so tense was probably because he thought Akizawa was angry—angry about the lie, about being left. But Akizawa wasn’t angry anymore. He wanted Masahiko to know that. He wanted them to go back to being lovers—to the happiness they had shared. If he could have that time back, he’d do anything. He’d forgive the lies. The escape. Everything.

But he couldn’t say it here.

Jessica understood Japanese. If his roommate found out Masahiko was gay, it might make things uncomfortable. Akizawa was being thoughtful—he was really thinking about Masahiko’s feelings. He was trying not to make things harder for him. He was being kind. He was finally behaving like a grown-up.

And then—

“You used to date Masahiko, right?” Jessica blurted out with no warning.

Akizawa nearly choked on the sesame ball, coughing violently. Seriously?! After all that careful thinking, this woman… what the hell is she doing?

“Don’t worry,” Jessica added cheerfully. “I’m not prejudiced. Half the fashion industry is gay. You’re more likely to find a straight stylist or designer by accident.”

What the hell is going on? Why was she bringing this up now, so casually?

“Listen, Kaito. We—”

“Jessica.”

Masahiko cut her off, placing a hand on her arm.

“I’ll say it.”

He took a small breath and looked straight at Akizawa.

It was the first time he’d really looked him in the eyes tonight.

But those dark eyes trembled like a frightened fawn.

“…I’m dating Jessica now.”

All the sound in the Chinese restaurant vanished.

“We’re planning to get married. Eventually.”

It felt like someone had crashed cymbals inside his skull. Loud, senseless noise ringing through his head.

“Two years ago, when CRUX opened the SoHo storefront, we managed to secure the retail space. I wanted to live nearby—even if it meant somewhere small. Jessica was also apartment hunting, and we met during a showing for the place we’re in now. We hit it off and decided to rent it together. Splitting rent made sense, and she spoke Japanese, so she helped me with a lot of things. While we were living together… it just naturally happened.”

Akizawa’s forehead grew damp with sweat.

I don’t understand.

How could he…?

How could he date someone else and talk about marriage like I never existed?

“But… but you said you loved me.”

Masahiko’s eyes darted away, awkward and guilty.

“That was a long time ago. Three years ago, I told you I wanted to break up. But you wouldn’t accept it. I didn’t know how to make it clear… so I ran. I’m sorry I didn’t face it properly.”

It felt like someone had reached into his skull and was clawing around in his brain—messing everything up. This—what is this?

Wasn’t it supposed to go back to how it was?

If he forgave Masahiko for the awful things he did… then shouldn’t they have been able to return to before?

“I… I came to New York because I wanted to start over with you, Masahiko. I wanted us to… try again…”

His voice shook, trembling in sharp little waves.

“I’m sorry.”

Jessica leaned forward from beside Masahiko.

“I love Masahiko too. I’m in love with him.”

It made his skin crawl. The words hit him like bile, rising up from his gut.

“Don’t fuck with me! What do you mean, love?! Masahiko is mine! He’s mine, damn it—don’t you dare take him from me!”

He shouted, but Jessica didn’t flinch. Her green eyes were still, almost sad—pitying.

“Masahiko doesn’t belong to you. And he doesn’t belong to me, either. Masahiko belongs to himself. He once loved you—truly. But that love is gone. Now, he loves me. Deeply. That’s the truth. Please… accept it.”

Akizawa shot to his feet, so violently that the chair behind him flipped over. He grabbed Jessica by the arm, forced her up, and began dragging her toward the entrance.

He was about to shove her when—

Masahiko wrapped his arms around Jessica and pulled her behind him, shielding her.

“Don’t lay a hand on her.”

It was the first time today that Masahiko’s eyes had shown any strength.

“If you touch her—I’ll never forgive you.”

The furious beast rampaging in Akizawa’s chest was sliced down in a single blow.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

I forgave you. I forgave you for lying to me, for running away.

And now you’ve got someone new?

What about me? What the hell am I supposed to do?

This isn’t right.

We met again—for the first time in three years. We finally found each other again—and now you’re leaving me? Again?

Akizawa looked down at his hands.

The makeup hid it well, but underneath the smooth surface were wounds.

Wounds that still hadn’t healed.

“I… I still love you.”

His voice wavered.

“I’ve always loved you, Masahiko. I love you. So why—why do you keep doing this to me? Why are you being so cruel?”

He clenched both fists.

A dull ache pulsed through his shallow cuts.

“What am I supposed to do?”

At the restaurant entrance, the three of them stood frozen. From inside, the staff peeked out nervously at the commotion.

“…Please,” Masahiko said softly. “Forget about me.”

The tears came in a rush. Just like back then—when Masahiko was gone and the pain nearly broke him—tears poured out like a burst pipe. His shoulders trembled with each breath.

“If I could just forget you—then I’d have never forgiven you! I’d have never come all the way here!”

Masahiko looked down, whispering in a voice barely audible.

“…I’m sorry.”

◇:-:◆:-:◇

He didn’t remember how he got back to the hotel. He’d jumped into a taxi, desperate to get away, not wanting to see the two of them standing side by side. And then, somehow, he was sitting on the bed in his room. He didn’t want to remember, but the image of them together kept replaying in his head. Masahiko’s words. Jessica’s words. They repeated over and over like movie lines stuck on a loop.

“That love is gone.”

“Forget about me.”

Why—why—why. If this show kept running in his head any longer, he was going to lose it.

He pulled every single bottle out of the minibar and drank them one after the other. Even beer, which he hated. He didn’t care anymore—if getting drunk would make him forget, he’d drink anything.

The alcohol slowly numbed his thoughts, blurring the images in his mind. The voices of the two of them faded.

But in their place, a flood of rage came crashing in.

He’d said he wanted to break up—just said it, and that was supposed to be the end of it? Akizawa never agreed to that. And now he was seriously dating someone else? That wasn’t moving on. That was cheating. That was betrayal. Masahiko was awful.

He staggered to his feet. The floor wobbled beneath him.

He stumbled, grabbing the tall floor lamp for balance, then heaved it and hurled it toward the window. It hit with a loud clang, but the glass didn’t break. The lampshade popped off and the light rolled across the floor.

Next, he grabbed a chair. As he raised it, his vision spun. He couldn’t stay upright—he fell backwards, hitting his head with a hard thud. Everything went black.

The ringtone of his smartphone rang inside his skull, grating and unbearable. He came to with a groan.

The sunlight pouring through the half-open curtains was blinding, searing through the hangover like acid.

He felt nauseous. Like he might throw up.

Grimacing, he touched the screen to answer.

“If I’m disturbing your rest, I apologize. It’s Kuma. Would it be alright if I stopped by your room for just a moment?”

His voice was hoarse from too much drinking. “What for.”

“I’m flying back to Tokyo this evening. There are a few things I need to confirm before then.”

“Then do what you want.”

He ended the call bluntly.

Turning his head made his skull throb. When he touched the back of it, he found a massive lump. What the hell did I hit…? Still, the headache from the hangover was worse. His stomach kept churning, and his temples throbbed like his heartbeat had moved behind his eyes.

The doorbell rang.

He staggered to the entrance, unlocked it.

Kuma stood there in a light blue sweater, flashing a bright, breezy smile.

“Good morning. Well—technically, it’s already past noon. Pardon the intru—”

He stopped mid-sentence, then dramatically pinched his nose.

“…You reek of alcohol. How much did you drink?”

Once inside, Kuma took in the scene: empty bottles scattered around the bed, the lamp on the floor, the mess everywhere. He sighed heavily.

He set the lamp upright, reattached the shade, picked up the overturned chair, gathered the bottles into a corner, and cracked the window.

Cold air slipped into the room like it had been waiting for its chance.

“You’re off today, so I won’t say anything about what you do with your time. But please—don’t do anything that ends with you sick or getting arrested.”

Akizawa ignored him, still lying face-down on the tangled sheets.

“Your return flight is scheduled for February 17th, 5 p.m. Since we arranged a long break, you have work lined up right after you get back. Please don’t miss your flight. If anything happens while you’re still here, contact me by phone or email. You’ll continue staying in this room until the 17th.”

He’d already heard all of that before coming here. There was no need to repeat it all aloud, but Kuma insisted on going through each detail like a checklist. And even now, he didn’t leave. His presence lingered in the room.

“You had dinner with Kusuda-san last night, didn’t you?”

Akizawa’s fists clenched the wrinkled sheets tightly.

“You must’ve had a lot to talk about. It should’ve been a good time. So why… why does it look like you drank yourself sick and wrecked the room?”

Slowly, Akizawa sat up. But his head hung low—he couldn’t bring himself to look up.

“…If you don’t want to talk, I won’t force you.”

That gentle withdrawal broke something in him.

That bitterness that had been pooling in his chest surged upward, and before he could stop it, it spilled out of him.

“…He said he doesn’t love me anymore.”

The moment he said it, sorrow crashed over him, and tears poured down all at once.

“He said… he’s in love with someone else…”

The tears fell in heavy drops, soaking into the sheets. The ache that had felt distant in the haze of alcohol came back in full force, sharp and unbearable. He clutched his chest—it hurt just to breathe.

“What… what am I supposed to do?”

Kuma pulled a chair beside the bed and sat astride it, resting his elbows on the backrest.

“Would you like to come back to Japan with me? I can still change your flight.”

If Masahiko wasn’t in his life, there was no reason to stay in New York. And yet—he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving his side. He didn’t want to see him anymore… but he did. He wanted to be close. Even now.

“Why? Why did it turn out like this?”

“It’s been three years,” Kuma said plainly. “Honestly, I kind of figured it would end this way.”

His detachment sparked a wave of fury. Akizawa slammed his fist into the bed.

“Three years isn’t that long! I suffered for those three years!”

“I know you did,” Kuma said evenly. “But if he broke up with you, then that’s that. I think you should stop dragging this out and just let it go already.”

Broke up—that word slammed into his chest like a blunt weapon.

“I don’t know all the details,” Kuma continued, “but from what I heard from Numata-san… Kusuda-san faked his own death to get away from you, didn’t he? If that’s true, then he really wanted out. I didn’t think getting back together was realistic.”

“But—I—I never agreed to break up!”

“Maybe you didn’t. But if the other person wants out, you have to respect that. And you should know—pursuing someone obsessively, even if they’re not your partner anymore, is stalking. That’s a crime.”

“I love Masahiko!”

Akizawa shouted.

“You should really let it go. Sometimes loving someone means walking away. That’s still love.”

…I don’t understand.

What good is love if we’re not together? What meaning does it have then?

“But I still love him—I’ve always loved him. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“You work at it. You forget.”

It hit him like a punch to the skull.

The tears that had been spilling so freely just moments before vanished—drawn back like a tide.

“Everybody does it,” Kuma said quietly. “You’re not special. You’re not the only one this happens to. Love ends. People move on. It sucks, but that’s just how it is. Even when one person falls out of love and the other is still completely in it—it happens all the time. It’s just… the one who still loves gets the short end of the stick. It hurts more for them.”

Then he added, bluntly:

“Personally, I think you’re better off leaving New York. Go back to Japan. Focus on something else—your acting, a hobby, something. That might help take your mind off it.”

Despite Kuma’s repeated attempts to persuade him to leave, Akizawa decided to stay at the hotel as planned.

“If you’ve been dumped, the one thing you must not do is cause trouble for Kusuda-san. Do anything he hates, and he’ll just hate you more. Forget about getting back together—you’ll get yourself reported to the police,” Kuma warned firmly.

Left alone again, his head still heavy with the remnants of a hangover, Akizawa thought.

It had hurt so much when he was told Masahiko had died. But even knowing he was alive—it still hurt. Just in a different way.

How could he love someone else?

He’d said he loved me. And now he says the love is gone.

How does love disappear like that?

Things had started to fall apart after that time in Okinawa, after he’d slept with a woman. Then came the time he made Masahiko sleep with two men in his own apartment. Sleeping with the woman—well, once Masahiko had sex with those two guys, it should have canceled things out.

Afterward, he heard Masahiko went to the hospital. Sure, maybe those guys had been rough. But wasn’t it them who were at fault? Not him.

And yet… if Masahiko had gone to the hospital, then he must have been really hurt.

Should I have stopped it? But when? How? Masahiko had seemed like he was enjoying it.

As he tore back through the memories of three years ago—things he couldn’t undo—night fell again.

The hangover had mostly passed. But the clearer his head became, the sharper the pain. It was unbearable.

Too drained to go outside, he went down to the hotel bar instead and drank like he was trying to drown himself. He cursed in Japanese, loud and slurred, and had to be carried back to his room by staff.

“UAAAAHHHHH!”

He woke to the sound of his own scream.

A small room. A cold floor. A mirror. The shower.

For a moment, he had no idea where he was.

Then it came back.

This was a hotel in New York. He’d passed out in the bathroom after vomiting. When he touched the back of his neck, his fingers slid through cold, sticky sweat. His throat was parched. He cupped his hands under the faucet and drank straight from the sink.

He had dreamed about his mother—first time in years.

He’d always liked her. There were plenty of happy memories. And yet, in his dreams, it was always the ugly ones that surfaced.

The worst was that day—when she left him.

It was May of his second year in junior high. The final day of shooting for a drama series. His mother had said, “Let’s eat out tonight,” and brought him to a private room in a restaurant. His father was there—someone he only saw a few times a year.

His parents had divorced before he turned three, but he’d never really felt the absence of a parent. He rarely went to school because of acting, didn’t have many friends, but his mother always came with him to set. She was always there.

“You’re Kaito Akizawa’s mother? Wow, you’re so young and beautiful!”

Every time they met new producers or directors, she was complimented on her looks.

With her delicate, sculpted features, striking eyes, and long black hair, she often outshone the actresses on set. Kaito used to think so himself.

“You don’t even look like you have a child. You should debut as an actress! Imagine a mother-son duo on screen!”

She was scouted constantly, but never once said yes.

“I think you should try acting, too,” he’d once said to her. She’d smiled sadly.

“Mama can’t act.”

“Before you were born, I was trying to be an actress. But I could never deliver my lines right. I quit before I disappointed anyone. Now, I’m just happy being called pretty on set. And I’m happiest when people say you’re good, Kaito. You were born to act. You’re beautiful, you’re talented… you’re my pride.”

He and his mother had been very close.

Until middle school—until he started playing darker roles, delinquent characters, and his attitude at home began to reflect the roles he couldn’t shake off.

“You’ve changed, Kaito.”

“You lie to me.”

“You’re like you have multiple personalities.”

“You’re so defiant.”

She said it over and over.

“Kaito, starting tomorrow, I want you to live with your father.”

At fourteen, when she decided she couldn’t handle him anymore, she cast him out—just like that.

The moment he realized she was abandoning him, something dark inside him exploded, swelling like a storm.

“But I want to be with you.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” she said gently. “It’s just that junior high is a hard age, and I think your father might be better suited to raise you now. This wasn’t an easy decision. I thought about it for a long time. But this is what’s best. Your dad is a stable person, and…”

“So I was rebellious and you decided to throw me away. You’re the worst mother ever.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears.

His father scolded him—“Don’t speak to your mother like that.”

He hadn’t really wanted to say it. He did feel that way, a little, but mostly he’d said it because—that’s what the character he was playing would have said.

“Maybe this is all because I got you into show business so young,” his mother said tearfully. “It’s strange to say, but even though I gave birth to you, sometimes I don’t recognize you anymore. When you were little, you were so sweet. So obedient.”

But he hadn’t changed.

It was just that, after a scene, he’d carry the role with him—talk like the character, act like the character. He knew he was lying sometimes, but it was what the role would have done. He didn’t want to lie. The characters he played were just like that…

“You’re so damn annoying, you stupid bitch.”

His mother lowered her head and sobbed.

Like a child.

Then she looked up, face sharp and cold.

“I don’t have a child.”

“I never gave birth to a kid like you.”

She erased him.

Right there.

She denied not just him, but all the happy times they’d shared. He wanted to cry—but he didn’t. The character he’d just been playing wouldn’t have cried.

That night, he stayed at his father’s apartment in Kanagawa. The next day, his belongings arrived. Two days later, he went back to the place he used to live with his mother—but she had already moved out.

He couldn’t see her. Couldn’t find her.

It left him feeling utterly empty inside.

“I want to see Mom.”

He told his father again and again. But his father would only say, “Your mother’s a complicated person. It’s better not to see her right now.”

He was lonely.

If he couldn’t see his mother, then he’d become someone she could still see—from TV, from film.

He told himself: If I’m on screen, she’ll watch.

And so he kept going to those studios filled with memories of her, crying on the way there.

There was a woman—an actress in her forties—who used to comfort him when he cried.

One day, in the dressing room, she pulled off his clothes and grabbed his penis. He didn’t know it was sex at the time, but they had sex.

After the shoot wrapped, she stopped comforting him.

Then it was other actresses, other actors, who filled that hollow inside.

He learned that physical touch from others could soothe him—and even bring him pleasure. But the warmth only lasted while they were embracing. The moment he was alone again, the loneliness came rushing back.

It didn’t take long for his father to realize that his son wasn’t going through a rebellious phase, nor did he have split personalities. He simply couldn’t separate himself from his roles. The effects lingered long after the cameras stopped rolling.

His father tried to explain that to his mother. But she still refused to see him.

Four years after she abandoned him, when he was eighteen, his mother remarried.

He begged his father for a chance to speak to her, and finally—just once—they talked on the phone.

She hadn’t changed a bit.

Her new husband knew she’d been divorced, but didn’t know she had a son. She said she didn’t want him to find out that the “problem child actor” Kaito Akizawa, who had made headlines for being difficult, was actually her son. She wanted to protect her new life, her new family.

So she told him—

“Please don’t contact me anymore.”

“My mother is a straightforward person—but she’s stubborn and tends to fixate. Once she decides something is ‘no good,’ there’s no repairing it. That’s why she gave up on me.” His father had tried to comfort him like that when Akizawa broke down crying on the phone.

“She’s not a bad person,” his father had said. “But she only knows how to think about herself. She’s selfish.”

Akizawa had been thrown away by his mother. Told to his face that she never wanted to see him again. And now Masahiko had left him too. His mother had erased his very existence—Masahiko, on the other hand, had tried to erase himself. That distinction didn’t make the pain any less.

Feeling sticky and filthy all over, he stripped where he stood and got under the shower. He didn’t even bother to dry his hair. Still wrapped in the hotel’s bathrobe, he walked to the window and pulled the curtain back. Outside, the sky was hazy. A murky, dull brown forest of trees huddled among the surrounding buildings, and far below, cars and people passed along the street, the world continuing indifferently, even while his own felt like it had stopped.

His head had cleared a little, and with that clarity came an unbearable ache—an overwhelming desire to see Masahiko. He cried just from wanting to see him. Even if they’d broken up, he still wanted to see him. His mother had thrown him away, but Masahiko hadn’t. Not yet. Even if Masahiko no longer loved him, even if he was dating Jessica, just seeing his face—just that—would be okay, wouldn’t it?

Kuma had told him not to cause trouble, not to inconvenience anyone. But surely just talking wouldn’t be considered trouble. Even strangers who sit beside each other on the train strike up conversations sometimes. Just talking was okay—even if they were no longer together.

Once he’d come to that conclusion, he couldn’t stay still another moment. He shaved, got dressed, and pulled on his black coat. This was already his fifth day in New York, but since he’d spent all of yesterday holed up in his heated hotel room, he had almost forgotten how bitterly cold it was outside.

He took a cab to CRUX’s storefront. The last time he’d been there was two nights ago, when the shutters had been down. Today, the shop was open. The exterior looked exactly like the ground-floor store at CRUX headquarters in Tokyo, which somehow gave him a small sense of relief.

Inside, the space was modest—maybe the size of a six-tatami room (around 10 square meters)—but the white walls kept it from feeling cramped. Display cases lined both sides of the shop and stood at its center, showcasing CRUX’s product lineup. There was only one employee, standing at the far end of the store behind the counter. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with long, straight blond hair tied back in a low ponytail, and a soft, matching beard. He looked like a European sage from the neck up, but with his slim frame and modest height—probably not even 170 centimeters—he wouldn’t pass for a model. He wore a simple black turtleneck sweater that suited him well.

Akizawa had foolishly thought that just by coming here, he’d see Masahiko. But in Tokyo, too, it was sales staff who worked the ground floor. How was I supposed to ask where Masahiko is? The thought of all the possible phrases to try muddied his brain. Annoyed with himself, he walked toward the employee. Maybe if he just said Masahiko’s name enough, they’d think he was an acquaintance and get in touch with him.

The blond man flashed him a nervous but polite smile, lips tight over clenched teeth.

“You… Japanese?” he asked in broken Japanese, with no connecting words or particles.

Even just fragments of shared language made things easier.

“Masahiko… is he here?”

The blond nodded. “Masahiko… owner.”

But he didn’t offer anything more. Maybe “is he here” didn’t make sense.

“Masahiko—where is he?”

The blond stroked his beard, murmuring “Where… where…” Then his face lit up.

“Owner… lunch. Not here!”

It was 12:30 when he checked the time. Maybe Masahiko would be back around one. But when a group of three customers came into the shop and the space started to feel cramped, Akizawa stepped outside.

The interior had been warm, but one foot out the door and the cold hit hard again. The sky was still a heavy gray, like someone’s lingering melancholy.

His stomach growled. It had been doing that for a while, but he’d ignored it out of sheer inertia. When his nerves got frayed, his appetite usually vanished, but he didn’t want to lose weight—not again. After he’d been told Masahiko was dead, he hadn’t been able to eat. He let himself waste away.

The cold sharpened everything. A small park came into view as he walked aimlessly. At its entrance stood a yellow food cart, manned by an elderly Black vendor selling hot dogs. It felt less daunting than going into a shop, so he bought a hot dog and a coffee.

As he wandered into the park, looking for somewhere—anywhere—with enough of a ledge to sit down and eat, he thought he heard Japanese. On the park’s right side was a small café with a green roof and terrace seating. There were people there—and one of them was Masahiko. It felt like fate. His heart leapt and he broke into a run, only to stop short after a few steps. Masahiko wasn’t alone. Across from him sat Tohru.

Masahiko threw his head back in laughter. Tohru kept his gaze down, but Masahiko leaned forward, practically draping over the table to peek at his face. Tohru turned away in discomfort, and Masahiko laughed again, clearly entertained.

Two nights ago, when Masahiko sat across from him in the Chinese restaurant, his expression had stayed stiff the entire time. But now—he looked so carefree, smiling freely. Happy.

Akizawa sat on a bench on the edge of the park, scarfing down his hot dog through shivering lips, watching them. When he looked again, the two of them had left.

He returned to the CRUX store. The blond clerk remembered him and pointed upward. “Owner, now—he’s here.” Probably, like in Japan, the office was just above the shop.

“You, a bit… wait,” the blond said, picking up the phone and rattling off something in rapid English. Then he pointed to Akizawa and asked for his name. “Name?” Akizawa said it, and the clerk repeated it twice into the receiver—“Akisawa… Akisawa.”

When he hung up, his expression was apologetic. “Owner… is busy.”

He knows I’m here. And still, he won’t come down.

Busy? A lie. He’d just seen him laughing at a café table not twenty minutes ago.

Don’t do anything that might be a nuisance, Kuma had said.

“I’ll wait outside,” Akizawa said. “Tell Masahiko I’d like to talk if he has a moment.”

He left the shop and stood near the wall between it and the neighboring store. Surely, at some point before closing, Masahiko would take a break. Then he could call him down.

With nothing to do, he stood there, staring at passersby. Maybe because it was winter, most of them wore black. And in this country where no one called out his name—no one pointed and said “Hey, it’s Kaito Akizawa!”—he realized it wasn’t so bad after all. People were emotional here, sure, and sometimes someone pulled a knife, but at least anonymity was guaranteed.

After standing for about an hour, his legs grew tired and he sat on the ground. The neighboring shop’s shutter was still closed; no one would bother him for sitting here.

The sky was gradually darkening, the gray deepening to the point it looked like snow could start falling any minute. Even with both hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his fingertips were going numb and stinging. The cold seeped into him, bone-deep. When he saw people wearing earmuffs and gloves, he thought, That’s the smart way to do it.

He remembered a time, long ago, when he was a child and there had been a movie shoot in Hokkaido. The snow was piled high, the wind howled, and it had been brutally cold. The crew lit a fire in a metal oil drum filled with kindling, and the actors had huddled around it. He had been sitting on his mother's lap, who herself sat in a folding chair. She placed her gloved hands over his and, rubbing them together again and again, murmured, “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

He had been loved once. He was sure of it.

There had been an actress who knew his mother during a time when he was wandering from one warm body to another, starving for affection.

"Your mother was that woman, right? The one who always dressed like a Hollywood star on the red carpet, even though she was just accompanying a child actor? She was beautiful and knew it—always waiting for someone to say so. It was almost painful to watch."

Maybe it was because he’d dreamed about her again. That memory dredged up more: his father had once mentioned she'd had a child after remarrying. If that kid ever reached adolescence and rebelled, would she throw that one away too? Would she pretend that child had never been born?

The door to the CRUX store opened slowly from the inside.

Masahiko stepped out.

Akizawa stood up quickly, startled. He was wearing the same deep green sweater and black pants as he had at the café earlier. There, when he was with Tohru, he'd been laughing. But now—Masahiko’s expression was exactly as it had been in the Chinatown restaurant: taut and on the verge of cracking. He stopped about three meters away, as though some invisible wall prevented him from coming any closer.

“Please go home. Sitting outside the store like this is a nuisance.”

The words hit like being kicked while already down. He’d waited, all this time, and now he was being treated like trash. Akizawa looked at him silently, and Masahiko glanced away, his face twitching with discomfort.

“Just give me five minutes,” Akizawa said. Masahiko didn’t say no, so he took that as permission and began speaking anyway.

“I want to be friends with you.”

Masahiko’s fingers twitched slightly.

“If we’re friends, it’s okay to meet and talk, right?”

The image of Masahiko laughing with Tohru at the café surfaced, sharp and painful.

“…No.”

The quiet refusal stung.

“Why not? You can only have one lover, sure, but there’s no limit on how many friends you can have, right?”

Masahiko raised his hand and covered his mouth. His face looked pale.

“What the hell is going on in your head?” he muttered.

“I just want to talk. That’s all. So if I have to be a friend to do that—then fine, I’ll be a friend.”

“I still don’t want to,” Masahiko said again.

The moment Akizawa heard it, his mind snapped. Heat surged into his head.

“You could at least be my friend! I forgave you for lying to me. I let you go even though I didn’t want to break up! I gave up on being your boyfriend just because you said you had someone new! I’ve been swallowing it all down, holding everything in. Can’t you give me just one thing?!”

Masahiko stood still for a moment, then finally murmured, “Fine.”

And just like that, the thorny storm inside Akizawa softened. His rage, frustration, sorrow—they all collapsed into a quiet, warm swell of hope.

“Then—let’s have dinner tonight. You can pick the place. I’ll go wherever you want.”

Masahiko shook his head. “I already have plans with Jessica tonight.”

The bubble of hope burst with a brutal crack.

A prior engagement…

That couldn’t be helped, could it? He was just the friend now. Jessica was the girlfriend.

But still…

“Then let me come too. Like last time.”

He didn’t want to see them side by side—but he wanted to be with Masahiko more than he hated that image.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Why not? The last time we all had dinner together, it was fine.”

“Tonight’s a date. It’s just for the two of us. I don’t want anyone else there.”

It was like being slapped across the face.

“Of course I’m going to prioritize my girlfriend over my friend,” Masahiko said.

Pain tightened like a fist in Akizawa’s chest. He had once held that position—he was the one Masahiko used to choose. That had been stolen from him. It hurt. It was humiliating. But he told himself, I’m just a friend now. He kept repeating it in his head, but his vision blurred with unshed tears.

“…Then how about lunch tomorrow?”

His voice trembled with the question.

“Can we have lunch together tomorrow?”

Masahiko said nothing. His silence stretched just long enough to break Akizawa’s last thread of composure.

“You said we were going to be friends, didn’t you? I saw you having lunch with Tohru. Then you can have lunch with me too!”

His voice cracked as he shouted.

Masahiko flinched, then muttered, “Tomorrow at lunch,” and quickly turned back inside, fleeing without another word.

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