COLD HEART in NEWYORK: Chapter 16

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When Masamitsu was asked for Masahiko's address, he first asked, “Did you see him?” Masahiko had been seen. They had spoken. He had cried and said he was scared. But that part wasn’t shared.

Instead, what was said was: “I won’t see Masahiko anymore.”

“But I want to write to him.”

To the address Masamitsu provided, Kaito sent a postcard with only one sentence: I’m sorry.

The day after dropping it in the mail, he wanted to apologize again—and sent another.

Then again, and again… until writing a card to Masahiko became part of his daily life.

At first, he didn’t even know how much postage was required. But over time, he figured it out, bought stamps in bulk, and began mailing them from filming locations.

Some were written when he was tired from work. Some were scrawled in a rough hand, still carrying the intensity of a violent role he hadn’t quite shaken.

When he couldn’t leave the set, he asked Kuma to mail them for him.

In summer, he sent seasonal cards. In winter, he chose wintry ones.

Sometimes he picked up local postcards from the towns where he was filming and wrote on those.

From the moment he returned from New York, not a single day passed without sending a card.

Not once did Masahiko reply. But the messages never asked for a reply.

They were not conversations—they were offerings. He had already decided they would never meet again. But even if it was only one-sided, sending apologies had become his only connection.

Masahiko might not have read them. A letter from someone who terrified him might be the last thing he'd ever want to open.

He might see the sender’s name and toss them without breaking the seal.

Still, Kaito couldn't stop.

Even without knowing whether they were being read, he needed the act of sending. The fact that he was doing it—that Masahiko existed somewhere to receive them—was enough.

It gave all the unspent, untouchable feelings inside him a place to go.

A full year passed. Spring came and went. Tokyo entered the rainy season.

Around that time, Kaito flew to Los Angeles for a film shoot and stayed there for two months. By the time they wrapped, summer was nearly over.

He was meant to have a three-week break after that, but a CRUX novelty shoot in New York was added to his schedule.

Tohru had gotten too busy, and their overlapping schedules left only one window—while Tohru was in the States.

Kaito had vowed not to return to New York. He never expected to find himself back there, a year and a half later.

The shoot took place over a full day at the Schermerhorn Row Block in Manhattan.

When Kuma asked if there were any catering requests, Kaito asked for bagel sandwiches from the ham shop near CRUX.

It was Rob who brought them.

“Happy I see,” Rob said, smiling.

Apparently, Rob had become so hooked on the sandwiches that he'd quit CRUX last summer and started working at the shop.

He'd gone from a skinny, delicate figure to a stockier build—perhaps from eating too many sandwiches—trimmed his blond hair short, grew out his beard, and now looked like an ordinary middle-aged man.

Because he could speak some Japanese, he’d even been featured in a Japanese travel magazine, which drew in tourists.

“Owner—customer from Japan come often,” Rob reported.

Even fragments of information about Masahiko made Akizawa’s chest tighten.

The shoot finished without trouble. They had blocked off two extra days in case Tohru’s previous job ran over, but didn’t end up needing them.

The next day, Akizawa planned to leave New York—but Kuma said, “A friend of mine is performing on Broadway. I was hoping to see their show before we fly out.”

“You know someone in theater?”

“Well, it’s more like dance than acting. Kind of avant-garde. It’s a small venue, but I’ve got two invites. Would you like to come with me?”

Even though he was technically on break, Akizawa had no plans waiting for him in Japan. So he decided to accompany Kuma to the show and return as originally scheduled afterward.

Since the performance wasn’t until 7 p.m., Akizawa went out during the day to wander the city. Hearing Rob talk about Masahiko had stirred something in him—he wanted to see Masahiko again, even from a distance.

He blended in with the foot traffic and wandered along Prince Street. That was fine in theory, but the late-August heat in New York felt like walking through a furnace. After just a few dozen meters, sweat was pouring down his entire body.

Unable to take the heat any longer, he bought a gelato and walked while licking it. By the time he made it in front of CRUX, the sweat had all but melted the gelato right off the stick. He casually glanced up at the second floor, but the blinds to the office window were tightly shut. The storefront downstairs had its shutters down as well, and there was a notice pasted on the door.

Thanks to the endless English drills he’d endured during the shoot in Los Angeles—even in his sleep, they'd haunted him—Akizawa’s listening comprehension had reached a level where he could at least catch most of what he heard, even if he couldn’t speak fluently. Reading had improved slightly, too. There were some words he didn’t know on the sign, but he understood the gist: they were closed for a weeklong summer break.

He suddenly remembered a Canadian actor he'd worked with on set saying he planned to go to Italy once the filming wrapped. Maybe Masahiko had gone on vacation too, and wasn’t even in New York.

Akizawa had been hoping for even a fleeting glimpse, so the realization left him a little disappointed. Still, there was no reason to head straight back to the hotel. The street felt familiar and nostalgic, so he kept walking.

Along the way, he stumbled upon a stationery shop. He went in and bought a few postcards and a ballpoint pen. Then he headed to the café in the park and sat on the terrace to write that day's card.

Just a fleeting glimpse—that was all he’d wanted. But even that hadn’t happened. Holding that disappointment in his chest, he simply wrote, I’m sorry. He sealed the card in an envelope and went to buy a stamp, only to realize: Masahiko’s apartment was nearby. He could just deliver it himself.

But what if he ran into him? He’d already sworn never to see him again. Would it seem like he was just lurking around? Sitting there, sipping his now-warm iced café au lait, he debated with himself. If Masahiko was really out of town on vacation, then there was no chance they’d meet. And even if he was in the apartment, all Akizawa had to do was drop the letter in the mailbox—it would only take a second.

On the way to the apartment, he passed the same sweet shop as before. He’d bought cookies there once. They were sweet and delicious, and Masahiko had eaten them too. He bought a gift bag to leave with the letter, and three extra cookies to nibble on himself while walking.

As he crunched his way through a cookie under the sweltering sun, he finally arrived at the apartment. He headed toward the mailboxes in the entrance, only to hit a familiar first obstacle: the electronic lock on the front door. He tried pressing on it, but it didn’t budge. The broken lock from before had finally been repaired.

If he couldn’t get inside, he couldn’t reach the mailboxes. He was about to give up, figuring he’d just have to mail it normally, when the door clicked open from the inside. An elderly woman stepped out. Just before it shut, he grabbed the door handle and slipped inside. The woman turned and eyed him suspiciously, so he played the part of a resident and gave a casual “Thanks.”

The mailboxes were located further in, but the one for Masahiko’s unit had a locked flap and no slot to slide in a letter. So much for slipping the letter and gift in together.

Left with no other choice, he took the elevator to the third floor. The rickety clatter during the ascent hadn’t changed. This was where Masahiko had told him he was afraid. Where he’d crouched in the corner, trembling. The memory stabbed through Akizawa’s chest. He pressed his palm gently to his shirt as if to hold the pain back.

He tucked the day’s card into the cookie bag and hooked it onto the door of Room 305, where Masahiko lived. Masahiko might be inside. But he couldn’t see him. Swallowing the longing, Akizawa told himself to be satisfied with having successfully delivered the day's card—this time with a gift. He turned on his heel—and froze. A woman was standing nearby. He hadn’t heard a single footstep.

Short red bob, green eyes. Freckles scattered across pale skin. The moment he realized who it was, he recoiled instinctively.

“What are you doing?”

Jessica, in a sleeveless blouse and tight skirt, stepped past him and grabbed the bag hanging from the doorknob. She peeked inside.

“What’s this?”

“...Give it to Masahiko.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“So you’ve taken a break and now you’re back to stalking Masahiko?”

“Y-You’re the one who said I couldn’t see him! I haven’t seen him at all since then!”

Jessica pulled a cookie from the bag and started munching on it right there, standing. That was something he’d bought for Masahiko. It felt like she was trampling on his feelings, and it made him angry—but his aversion to her kept him from saying anything.

“Masahiko doesn’t even like sweets that much.”

That wasn’t for you.

“How long are you staying this time?”

“...The day after tomorrow.”

Jessica gave a small snort through her nose.

“Try coming by around the same time tomorrow.”

She disappeared into the apartment with the paper bag still in hand. He’d only meant to leave a letter directly this time, but running into Jessica had soured the whole thing. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that neither the card nor the cookies would actually make it to Masahiko—they'd probably be tossed out.

Still heavy with that thought, Akizawa returned to the hotel. In the taxi to the theater with Kuma, no matter how much he was spoken to, he didn’t say a single word.

“You seemed fine this morning. Why the sudden storm cloud? Is it... Kusuda-san-related?”

The way he said it—and how on-point it was—got under Akizawa’s skin. The stage play they went to see, which featured someone Kuma knew, was a chaotic mess of shouting, running, rolling around, getting drenched in water, and not a shred of a coherent story. Akizawa was dumbfounded. But the chaos helped clear his head—in a good way—and it even lifted his mood a bit. Kuma, on the other hand, looked like he’d just come from a wake.

“I went out of my way to delay our return for this… I’m really sorry. That was... something.”

Seeing Kuma so humbled, after having irritated him earlier in the day, was mildly satisfying.

That night, just before bed, Akizawa was still debating what to do about tomorrow’s card. Jessica had told him to come again around the same time—but what did she mean by that? Was it just another chance to ambush him and lecture him again?

The more he thought about it, the more annoying it became. He considered mailing it like usual instead, but Jessica’s invitation gnawed at him. The thought looped endlessly.

Then a possibility hit him: maybe... maybe she was trying to coordinate things so he and Masahiko wouldn’t run into each other, even by accident.

That answer made perfect sense. And realizing it brought a strange sense of relief. But it also made him feel hollow.

He wasn’t supposed to see Masahiko. He knew that. And yet—what he truly wanted was to see him again. Admitting that now, though, didn’t change anything. It was too late.

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