COLD HEART in NEWYORK: Chapter 9
"Today, Kaito Akizawa was at the
studio for a taping."
Hearing his own name, Akizawa looked
up slightly. It was the employee cafeteria on the third floor of ALC Television
headquarters. At a table diagonally in front of him, a short-haired woman and a
man in black-rimmed glasses were chatting. The woman had been at the recording
session that morning, checking the performers’ lav mics—so she was probably on
the sound crew. The man was unfamiliar. He wore faded jeans and a worn-out
hoodie, the very image of someone working behind the scenes.
It was three in the afternoon—an
odd, in-between time—and there were only five people in the cafeteria, which
was about the size of a basketball court. ALC TV had two employee cafeterias,
and according to the makeup artist, the one on the fifteenth floor was newer,
more popular, and often visited by celebrities. In contrast, the third-floor
cafeteria was mostly frequented by older staff.
“Wasn’t he supposed to be against
appearing on TV?”
As he spoke, the man in the
black-rimmed glasses popped a cherry tomato into his mouth.
“Apparently he usually turns down
offers for dramas and variety shows. This time it was a special case—for a
movie promotion. I got to see him up close, and he was seriously handsome. His
face is ridiculously small, like a model’s.”
The woman clasped her hands around
her plastic cup and spoke with enthusiasm. Akizawa had chosen the third-floor
cafeteria specifically because he thought it would be quiet, and yet here he
was, listening to people gossip about him.
“Actors are all about looks anyway,
right? Imanishi-chan, is Akizawa your type or something?”
The woman, Imanishi, flushed red in
an instant.
“He’s such an incredible actor. I
became a fan after I saw ‘With You, Someday, Forever’.”
Last year, Akizawa had starred in a
film adaptation of a novel that had won a literary award. The movie, titled With
You, Someday, Forever, told the story of a lonely protagonist who loses the
first person he ever loved, and gradually spirals into psychological collapse.
It was a quiet film, and the number of theaters showing it was modest at first.
But word of mouth spread—“It’s amazing,” people said—and the film’s run
was extended. Screenings increased little by little. When it was submitted to
an overseas film festival and Akizawa won Best Actor, that became another
boost. The movie went on to become a major hit.
Since becoming the image model for
CRUX, he had steadily gotten more acting jobs. But after the film’s success,
offers had come pouring in. Akizawa now had the privilege of choosing his
roles. A few years earlier, he’d gotten into a dispute with the film director
Domon Yoichi, and thanks to Domon pulling strings behind the scenes, Akizawa
had been effectively blacklisted from movie work. But after Domon was convicted
over a knife altercation involving his mistress and had effectively retired,
there was no one left in the industry holding Akizawa back.
After discussing things with
Numata—his manager and also his father—they decided to focus solely on film
projects. Regardless of whether the role was leading or supporting, or what the
payment looked like, he would decide after reading the script. President Miyako
of the agency had made a sour face and said, “Now’s your prime earning time,
you know,” but Akizawa explained that he wanted to be selective if he was
going to have a long career as an actor. Though reluctant, Miyako had
ultimately agreed.
“It’s not that I disagree he’s
talented,” the man with the glasses continued, resting his cheek on his hand
with his chopsticks still in hand, “but guys like that aren’t really my thing.”
“Don’t you think he seems kind of
full of himself?” he went on. “He sobbed during the stage greeting for With
You, Someday, Forever, saying his own lover had died—didn’t they show that
on the entertainment news?”
“I actually like people who are that
devoted,” Imanishi said. “Maybe it’s exactly because of that past that he was
able to act so convincingly in With You, Someday, Forever.”
“He might be sincere, but bringing
that up in a public interview with TV crews around? That’s kind of painful to
watch. Like, ‘Look how tragic I am!’—that kind of vibe is a bit much.”
Akizawa slurped the ramen in front
of him—a thin broth that might as well have been soba soup. His
non-prescription glasses fogged up faintly.
“That guy’s also the image model for
that accessories brand, right? For a while, their ad campaign got totally out
of hand. All those nude shots of some emaciated guy—it was like, who even wants
that? I really don’t like that kind of marketing that just drags out
controversy for attention.”
“Okay, sure, maybe he was too skinny
in those photos,” the woman replied, “but he still looked amazing. The
photographer was super famous, and they even released a photo book, remember? I
actually bought two copies.”
Being in a profession where your
face is constantly exposed, criticism—whether direct or filtered through
others—finds its way to you from every angle. If he let every word get to him,
he’d never have peace. So he ignored it. Most of it, anyway.
But that one thing—that—he
couldn’t just brush off. Even now, the memory throbbed deep in his chest like
an open wound.
Three years ago, the person he loved
most in the world died.
No longer of this world. He couldn’t
talk to him, couldn’t see his face. Something unimaginably terrifying had
suddenly become real. He had played roles before—kids who’d lost their parents.
And back then, he had felt sadness while performing. He thought that was
just how it worked.
But reality was nothing like that.
It felt like someone had carved a
hole right through his heart, leaving him hollow and thoughtless. The only
thing that played on repeat in his mind was the fact that no matter where he
went in the world, Masahiko wasn’t there. He could be sitting perfectly still,
and tears would suddenly spill over, unstoppable. He no longer recognized
hunger. So he didn’t eat. During a shoot, his legs gave out beneath him. He
couldn’t move. An ambulance took him to the hospital, where he was diagnosed
with malnutrition.
“When was the last time you ate?”
the doctor asked.
He couldn’t answer. He didn’t know.
He couldn’t remember.
Before he knew it, the days would
begin and end. His body was suffering, but he dragged himself to work anyway.
They’d cover up his gaunt cheeks with makeup. He’d move in front of the camera
and deliver his lines. As long as the camera was rolling, he could act. But the
moment his scene wrapped, he’d collapse on the spot.
At the time, Numata had become too
busy, so a man named Kuma had taken over as his manager. Kuma was two years
younger but with a thinning hairline and solid build that made him look closer
to forty. Kuma had suggested, “Why not take a short break? I’ll handle your
schedule,” but Akizawa had refused flatly.
“Absolutely not.”
His lover had said he loved the
version of Akizawa who acted. And even after death, surely he still wanted to
watch him perform. That’s what Akizawa believed—needed to believe.
Usually, he never forgot the lines
of roles he played. But from that period, there was almost nothing left in his
memory—no lines, no scenes. Numata and Kuma had praised his work, said it was
good, but it felt like someone had stolen that entire stretch of time right out
of his mind.
Four months after Masahiko died,
Numata approached him with a suggestion: “Why not take a break from being
CRUX’s image model next season?”
It was his most important job.
Masahiko had been involved in it too. It felt like an extension of himself. So
why was Numata saying something like that?
“You’re way too fixated on CRUX,”
Numata said. “And besides, you’re not even in shape to be modeling right now.”
That night, Akizawa stood in front
of a mirror and saw his own naked body for the first time in a while. The
reflection staring back at him looked like a starving kitten, ribs jutting out
grotesquely—an emaciated wreck of a man.
Panicked, he rushed to a family
restaurant and ate until his stomach hurt so much he couldn’t move. He’d always
had a body that didn’t put on weight easily, so even overeating didn’t restore
what had been lost. In the end, he modeled just as he was—thin and sunken.
When Takahisa, the photographer, saw
Akizawa standing there in adjusted clothing that tried to hide his frame, he
frowned.
Then said only one thing.
“Take it all off.”
In front of the entire photography
crew—makeup artists, stylists—he had to strip down completely. When Takahisa
gave the order, Kuma had snapped, “We weren’t told about any nudity!” and
confronted him. But Akizawa stopped him. If he didn’t get naked, Takahisa
wouldn’t take the photos. He hadn’t said so outright, but Akizawa understood
that much.
Takahisa captured the image of a man
who had lost the love of his life, fallen into despair, and become the walking
dead. That hollow, vacant expression—those gaunt, naked photographs were
released as advertisements. But given that Akizawa had already appeared in
earlier campaigns with a grimy, bloodstained face, neither President Miyako nor
Numata said anything about “image damage” at that point. He had nothing else to
give then; using his skeletal body to make a statement was all he could do. If
people found it revolting and kept their distance, that was fair. But contrary
to expectations, the posters became a hot topic, sparking debates over whether
they were porn, advertisement, or art.
Immediately after that photoshoot
wrapped, he received the offer for With You, Someday, Forever. He read
the script and cried. A protagonist who loses his beloved and falls into
despair—it was him. It felt like the script had been written just for him. He
begged Numata: “I have to do this.”
As he played the grieving lover, he
wept over and over again in his heart. He and that character were the same, and
yet… why hadn’t he gone mad? Why hadn’t he died? It was then he realized—it was
because of his lover’s final wish. His lover had wanted him to continue being
the image model for the brand. That was why he had to cling to the work of
acting, no matter what—no matter how minor the role.
He had to keep embodying CRUX. He
had to project that brand to the world as Kaito Akizawa. Until the day his
heart stopped naturally.
By the time filming for With You,
Someday, Forever ended, he had managed to return to a body that could be
seen on screen. Physically, he was back. But mentally, his heart remained
sunken in a cold ocean. No one could lift him back into the warm and sunny
world again.
“But y’know, I actually think it’s
smart that Akizawa doesn’t do variety shows,” the man in the black-rimmed
glasses added. “His pity-party vibe is annoying, yeah, but if you just focus on
his acting, he’s actually good.”
People who knew nothing about him
always had the most to say. Akizawa stood up, ramen bowl in hand, and
approached their table.
“Hey.”
The two turned toward him. The woman
immediately realized who he was and gasped, covering her mouth. The man just
frowned, as if to say what the hell is this guy’s problem?
“Have you ever lost someone you
loved?”
The man tilted his head in
confusion, but when Akizawa took off his glasses, the man gasped.
“If you’ve ever lost someone you
loved, then you’d understand. It’s the kind of sadness that makes you want to
die. So no, I’m not putting on a sob story. I’m actually really, truly sad.”
The man trembled as he bowed his
head. “S-sorry…”
“You can’t understand the real me
just from watching TV,” Akizawa said quietly, and returned his tray to the dish
station near the entrance.
“Wh-why the hell is Akizawa
even here?!” the man’s tearful voice called out behind him.
It was simple. After the shoot, he
had some time before his next appointment. He didn’t feel like going out, so
he’d stayed behind to eat a late lunch. That was all.
He adjusted his favorite hunting
cap, nudged the blue bridge of his non-prescription glasses back up his nose,
and checked his watch.
It was time to leave the studio.
Just past five o’clock, and already
dusk had settled in. The weather had been dreary all day, and the sky had gone
dark faster than usual. Some of the streetlamps were beginning to flicker on,
faint and hazy.
A sharp whoosh of wind
slipped through the narrow gaps between buildings. The chill on his neck made
Akizawa pull up the collar of his short trench coat. At his feet, dry leaves
skittered along the pavement with a papery rustle. It was the end of
November—already winter.
Every year, he thought the same
thing: as the air grew colder, the world seemed to decay, as though dying.
Everything dulled—browns, grays, muted tones. But he didn’t hate winter. What
he did hate—despised—was summer. Because it was in the sweltering tail end of
summer that his lover had died.
Whenever he remembered Masahiko’s
face, a warm sting bloomed behind his eyelids. The first person he had truly
loved. The first person who had ever made him feel genuinely loved. They had
been happy together, he was sure of it—so where had it all gone wrong? Even
now, he still couldn’t understand why he had to be the one left behind.
Being with Masahiko had been fun.
His heart would race, he’d feel good, and just being close to him brought
peace. The unpleasant things felt farther away. This must be what happiness
is, he had thought. He had never loved someone that deeply before, so he
hadn’t known that losing them could hurt this much. The more happiness one has,
the deeper the despair that follows.
The loneliness had settled beside
him like a shadow, creeping in from underfoot whenever he let his guard down.
And this loneliness—it would never leave him again. Not ever.
Last month, he’d been cast in a
Hollywood movie slated to release three years from now. The director was
world-famous and had made several films Akizawa personally admired. It wasn’t a
lead role, but he accepted the offer without hesitation. He wanted the part—and
having his face shown worldwide would benefit CRUX, too, which had opened its
first flagship store in the U.S. last year and was now beginning a full-fledged
push overseas.
Filming would start in the spring
after next, in Los Angeles. By then, he had to be able to speak English. The
day after the contract was finalized, Numata had ordered him to start attending
English lessons.
The school was staffed entirely by
foreign teachers, with one-on-one instruction as the standard. Located on the
third floor of a fifteen-story building, the place was popular among
celebrities and wealthy clientele—though it bore no flashy signage out front.
As soon as he stepped through the
automatic doors, a young woman at the front desk greeted him with a cheerful
“Good afternoon.” He hadn’t seen her before. Normally, once he gave his name,
they would promptly direct him to his classroom, but this time she said, “Would
you mind waiting just a moment?” and disappeared into the back.
He didn’t want to linger in the
waiting area. Still, he reluctantly sat in one of the pale green chairs behind
him and tugged the brim of his hunting cap low to shade his face. Since With
You, Someday, Forever had become a hit, more and more people had started
recognizing him.
There were other schools that
offered home lessons, where instructors would come directly to his place. But
Akizawa hated letting strangers into his home, so he’d chosen to attend in
person.
The receptionist still hadn’t
returned. What’s taking so long? he thought irritably, when he suddenly
sensed a gaze on him. A woman in a dress, seated a short distance away, was
sneaking glances in his direction. Maybe she had recognized him. If she
tries to talk to me, that’s going to be a pain, he thought, lowering his
head further.
“Um… excuse me.”
A hesitant voice reached him.
Kuma had once told him, “Even if
you’re not the type to smile and wave, please don’t ignore fans. A simple,
‘Thank you, I’m really sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ is fine. Just don’t
brush them off completely.”
With a sigh, Akizawa lifted his
head, ready to recite the usual routine. The woman who had been watching him
was now standing right in front of him, her voice hushed.
“You’re Akizawa-san, aren’t you?”
“I’m Itsuki Goko,” she said, as if
expecting him to recognize her.
Judging by her appearance, she
seemed to be around his age. Just last month, a man had approached him, saying
they’d been in the same class in middle school. But Akizawa had barely
attended, and didn’t remember his face at all.
“Were we at the same school?”
The woman gave a sheepish smile.
“I’m Itsuki. I used to work at the CRUX office, back in the day.”
She had wide eyes, a low nose, and a
flat, broad face—like a fava bean. Fava bean... As if a long-forgotten
box in his memory had suddenly burst open, it all came rushing back. She had
been the woman who liked Masahiko. She wasn’t around in the beginning, but at
some point she’d appeared at the CRUX office, and before he realized it, she
was gone again.
“I left CRUX two years ago when I
got married, so this is the first time I’ve seen you since.”
He hadn’t known. He remembered
Miyamoto once saying something like, “Itsuki’s the type who’ll quit the second
she gets married.” Turned out she’d been right.
“You’ve been very successful
lately,” she said with a polite smile.
She wasn’t a stranger, but not
exactly someone he was close to either. That awkward kind of in-between.
Akizawa gave her a nonchalant “Thanks.”
“You’re taking lessons here too,
Akizawa-san?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too! My husband’s being
transferred to the U.S. this spring, so I’ve got to learn English. But I’m
terrible at it. We went to America for our honeymoon and nothing I said got
through. It was awful.”
He couldn’t care less about Fava
Bean’s English ability, but he couldn’t leave until someone came to show him to
his room.
“Oh, right,” she added, “when we
were sightseeing in New York, I happened to run into Kusuda-san. I’d heard he’d
started another job after getting sick, but it turns out he’s back at CRUX. He
looked really well—I was relieved.”
That didn’t make sense.
“Masamitsu-san? He was sick? And
working somewhere else? That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her
head. “Not the older brother. I mean the younger one—Masahiko-san. He had some
serious illness, right? Wasn’t he hospitalized in Osaka? I never got a chance
to visit, so I hadn’t seen him in ages. I never imagined we’d run into each
other while traveling.”
Akizawa let out a sharp laugh. “No
way that was Masahiko.”
“I swear it was!”
There was conviction in her voice
now.
“Kusuda-san told me CRUX was opening
a physical store in New York soon. That was two years ago, though.”
Something was wrong. Masahiko was
dead. Why would she say she saw him? Even now, CRUX employees didn’t know about
his death—it had been kept under wraps to avoid drawing attention to the
suicide.
“Maybe it was a ghost,” Akizawa
said.
Itsuki faltered, her mouth half-open
in confusion.
“We met in broad daylight. My
husband was with me and he heard us talking. Afterward he said, ‘That guy seems
really nice.’”
But Masahiko was dead. How could she
have met him? Talked with him? And she said it so casually, like it was no big
deal.
Could it really have been a ghost? But if it was… why would Masahiko
appear in New York?
A ghost—but one who could speak,
converse clearly.
Who could talk.
The moment that realization struck
him, a wave of goosebumps spread over his entire body.
“Where?!”
He grabbed Itsuki’s shoulders
tightly with both hands.
“Where in New York did you see
Masahiko?!”
Her flat face twisted sideways in
panic, her expression crumpling more with each passing second.
“Ow—m-my shoulder—”
“Just tell me where you saw him!”
“...At a shop called R-JEWEL NYC in
SoHo…”
He let go. Then, without another
word, Akizawa charged toward the automatic door that led into the classrooms.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you
waiting, Akizawa-sama. We’ll now proceed to—”
The receptionist stepped out into
the waiting room, but he ignored her completely. He jumped into the elevator
and, as it descended, called Kuma. Ever since he'd done the historical drama,
he and Numata had handled the offer selection together—but Kuma still managed
his detailed scheduling.
“Akizawa-san, what’s going on? Isn’t
this your English lesson slot?”
“Do you have my passport?”
“It’s kept at the office.”
“I’m coming to get it.”
“Wait, what’s going on?”
“Just get it ready!”
He practically yelled into the phone
before hanging up. As soon as he exited the building, he flagged down a taxi
and checked for flights to New York while on the way to the agency. The
earliest he could find was one departing around six o’clock. If he stopped by
the office to grab his passport… he might not make it in time. But there was a
chance the flight could be delayed. He couldn’t just sit still.
Once he got there, he’d head to SoHo
and find the shop. If he went there, he could meet Masahiko. Even if it
was a ghost, if they could talk, that was enough. The thought of it made him
tremble with a shivering thrill, his whole body quaking.
“Sir, are you cold?” the taxi driver
asked, and Akizawa shook his head. I don’t even know what’s happening
anymore… but if I can see Masahiko, I have so many things I want to say. So
many things he needed to tell him—how painful it had been since he was gone,
how much it hurt…
The taxi pulled up in front of the
building housing Miyako Entertainment’s offices. Akizawa told the driver, “I’m
heading straight to Narita after this. Please wait here,” and sprinted up the
stairs.
“Kuma! Kuma!”
He burst through the office doors.
Behind the reception desk, seated at a work table, Kuma turned around.
“Where’s my passport?”
As Akizawa rushed over, Kuma’s
expression stiffened.
“Why do you need your passport all
of a sudden?”
“Just give it to me! I don’t have
time!”
“Don’t tell me you’re trying to
leave the country right now. Filming for Ricchan and the Rain starts
tomorrow. There’s no way you’re going overseas today and coming back in time.”
“I can do whatever I want with my
passport. Give it back!”
The receptionist and the other
managers were watching from a distance.
“Thought it sounded noisy out
here—of course it’s you, Kaito.”
From the president’s office in the
back, Numata emerged.
“What the hell are you making such a
scene for?”
Akizawa fell silent, and Kuma,
exasperated, exposed him.
“He’s asking for his passport.”
“Passport?” Numata frowned. “You
don’t need that right now.”
While they argued over this
nonsense, precious minutes were slipping away. He was going to miss the flight.
“Masahiko was there,” Akizawa said
suddenly.
Numata tilted his head slightly.
“He’s in New York. Someone said they
met him…”
“Akizawa-san!”
Kuma shot up from his seat and
slammed his palm on the desk.
“What are you talking about?
Kusuda-san from CRUX died three years ago.”
He knew. Kuma knew Masahiko had been
Akizawa’s lover, the vice president of CRUX, and that he had taken his own
life. During those unstable months afterward, Numata had told Akizawa he had
shared the truth with Kuma—and only Kuma.
“But someone saw him. There’s
something there. Maybe he’s a ghost, I don’t care. I just… I need to see him.”
Akizawa clenched his fists, his
whole body trembling like a child throwing a tantrum.
“That’s why I need my passport. I
want to see him. I have to go right now!”
Numata grabbed his arm and yanked
him forward. A soft waft of cologne brushed across his nose.
“Kaito. Come with me.”
Numata’s grip was firm, dragging him
forward.
Sensing resistance, Akizawa dug his
heels in.
“There’s no time to talk! If I wait
around, the plane will—!”
“I said come with me!”
The thunderous shout struck him like
lightning, and Akizawa flinched.
Dragged by Numata, he was shoved
down into a seat on the sofa in the reception room.
“Who told you they saw Kusuda-san?”
Numata remained standing across from
him, arms crossed, staring down.
“It was someone who used to work at
CRUX. She said he was at some shop in SoHo.”
“That’s a mistake.”
The reply came cold and firm,
shutting the idea down.
“I know it sounds weird, but… she
said she saw Masahiko. That someone else with her saw him too. I don’t get it
either, but… maybe it was a ghost. I mean, if I could see him—if I could talk
to him—even if it’s a ghost, I don’t care...”
“That’s ridiculous. Think.”
“But Fava Bean said she saw
Masahiko—”
“She must have mistaken someone else
for Kusuda-san. Said the wrong name, thinking of someone else. That’s all.”
“But she mentioned he’d been
hospitalized in Osaka, and that CRUX was opening a physical store in New
York—those are things only Masahiko would’ve said.”
At that, Numata rubbed his chin.
“Well, it’s true that CRUX opened a
store in New York last year. It wouldn’t be strange if a Japanese staff member
was there. She probably confused him with Kusuda-san. When people are too busy
or overwhelmed, they start mixing up stories—can’t remember whose experience
belonged to whom. She likely mixed up the staff’s background with Kusuda-san’s.
And if she even got the name wrong, I’d say the woman you spoke to was pretty
exhausted, don’t you think?”
If it was just Fava Bean’s mistake,
then everything made sense. All the hope that had swollen to bursting now
deflated with a silent, withering sigh. Masahiko had died three years ago. Not
even as a ghost could they meet.
“You were really going to throw away
your work and fly to New York over some confused story?”
The start of a lecture loomed, and
Akizawa shrank in his seat, lowering his gaze.
“I just… I thought I might be able
to see Masahiko...”
“You’re not a child anymore. Be
rational. …You’ve had a long day with that variety show—it’s not the kind of
thing you’re used to. Go home. Rest.”
When prompted for a reply, he
mumbled, “Yeah,” and left the agency, still hanging his head. The taxi he’d
told to wait was still parked outside. …That’s right—he had planned to head to
the airport.
As he climbed in, the driver asked,
“To Narita, sir?”
“…Forget the airport.”
He gave the address to his condo
instead and settled into the back seat. As the taxi began to move, Akizawa
pulled a passcase from his tote bag. Inside wasn’t a transportation IC card,
but a sheet of A4 paper folded in quarters, worn soft and ragged from being
handled too much.
To Kaito Akizawa-sama: As the
exclusive model of CRUX, I humbly ask for your continued support going forward.
It was his lover’s will. His final
message to Akizawa. The reason he was still alive—because Masahiko had wanted
it that way. He touched the printed letters with his fingertips, and memories
of their joyful days surged up, pricking his chest with pain.
Fava Bean had made a cruel mistake.
She’d confused some stranger for Masahiko. Careless woman. She played with
my heart like it meant nothing, when Akizawa wanted so desperately to see
him again.
As he sat there replaying their
conversation in his mind, irritation bubbling up, he realized something.
Wait… didn’t I ask her if it was
Masamitsu she saw?
She had answered clearly—“No, the
younger one. Masahiko-san.”
If it really had been a case of
mistaken identity, wouldn’t she have realized it then?
Numata had dismissed Fava Bean’s
story outright. And yes, Akizawa knew—knew that the dead don’t come back. But
still…
“Actually… change the destination.”
He returned to the English school
once more. Pushing up to the front desk, he said, “There’s a student named
Itsuki—can you give me her contact info?” But the receptionist replied, “I’m
sorry, we can’t give out personal information about our students.” It was
already approaching six-thirty. Private lessons ran in forty-minute blocks, so
if Itsuki had gone into a session after speaking with him, she’d be done and
gone by now.
The school allowed students to
arrange their own schedules freely, but it wouldn’t disclose those times. He
could try to stake out the lobby and wait, but not tonight.
Akizawa exited the building. The
taxi from earlier was long gone, so he flagged down a new one. As he sat back,
headed toward his apartment, he gazed out the window at the now fully darkened
cityscape. Itsuki said she saw Masahiko. Numata said she was mistaken. And
Akizawa—he thought she was probably mistaken, too. But still, even if it was a
lie, he wanted to dream.
“Um, sir, looks like there’s been an
accident up ahead. It’ll be a detour, but should I go around? It’ll probably be
quicker that way.”
The middle-aged driver’s question
got a nod and a soft, “Go ahead,” from Akizawa.
The taxi turned and began snaking
through narrow, unfamiliar streets. Just as he thought Finally, a road I
recognize, he realized they were passing by the building that housed CRUX.
The four-story building had lights glowing brightly on the top floor. Either
Masamitsu or one of the craftsmen must still be there. Maybe—just maybe—someone
inside still had Itsuki’s contact information.
Akizawa lurched forward and shouted,
“Stop here!” startling the driver into slamming the brakes.
Two years ago, CRUX had installed an
electronic security lock at the building entrance. If you entered the code, the
door would open—he had been given the number. Unlocking it, Akizawa stepped
inside. The entrance hall was dimly lit. When he took the elevator to the
fourth floor, the hallway there was also dark. The door to the workshop was
open, and a narrow sliver of light spilled out from within.
"…Is that so? And what did you
tell Akizawa-san?"
His feet came to a halt. Masamitsu
was talking to someone—about him.
"…If that explanation satisfied
him, then good. I had heard from Masahiko that he ran into a former office
worker over there two years ago. But since she’d already left the company, I
figured she’d never come in contact with Akizawa-san again," Masamitsu
said.
Akizawa’s heart began to pound
violently, thud, thud, against his ribs. Suppressing the trembling in
his legs, he crept closer to the entrance and peeked inside the workshop.
"Besides, Akizawa-san finally
seems to be calming down. He was in really bad shape for a while there,"
Masamitsu continued, sitting on a work chair, speaking into his smartphone. "Thank
you for reaching out to me. Excuse me," he said, ending the call.
Before he realized it, Akizawa had
burst into the workshop. Masamitsu turned around, startled.
"A-Akizawa-san! Wh-what are you
doing here…?"
"Masahiko's alive, right? He’s
alive, isn’t he? That’s true, isn’t it, Masamitsu-san?"
His hands trembled with excitement.
"Tell me. Please tell me. I
won’t get mad. Even if you lied, I won't be angry. Just tell me. Please… tell
me the truth!"
Masamitsu averted his gaze, staring
down at the floor.
"Tell me! You know, don’t you?!
Please, explain it properly!"
His own breathing, ragged and loud,
rang in his ears. Masamitsu stayed silent for a long moment, then finally
raised his head and looked at Akizawa.
"Sit down," Masamitsu
said, pointing to a work chair.
"I don’t need to sit! I don’t
need to, just tell me about Masahiko—"
"Just sit down and calm down.
I’ll tell you everything."
Forcing his trembling legs to move,
Akizawa grabbed the back of the chair. His knees buckled as if they had
forgotten how to bend, and he practically dropped himself onto the seat with a
heavy thud. Masamitsu also sat down in a neighboring chair and rolled it
forward on its casters until he was facing Akizawa directly. Unable to wait for
him to speak, Akizawa blurted out once more, "Masahiko’s alive,
right?"
Masamitsu stared straight at him and
answered clearly, "He is."
The moment he heard those words, a
surge of heat welled up inside Akizawa, and tears began to pour from his eyes,
falling one after another. Three years’ worth of sludge and grief stored inside
him seemed to drain out along with the tears. I’m happy. I’m so happy. I
don’t have to keep chasing the shadow of a ghost anymore.
He tore tissues from the box
Masamitsu had offered and pressed them against his face, letting them soak up
the overflowing emotions. He blew through tissue after tissue, nearly emptying
the box, until finally the storm inside him began to settle.
"I’m going to see
Masahiko," he said with renewed resolve, his mouth tightening into a firm
line.
Across from him, Masamitsu’s chair
let out a small, strained creak.
“What do you plan to do if you meet
him?”
“I want to talk. About everything
that’s happened while we’ve been apart.”
“And after that?”
“I want to tell him I love him.”
He wanted to pour his heart out.
There couldn’t be anyone else in the world who loved Masahiko more than he did.
His feelings for Masahiko were second to none. To love someone this much and
not end up together—there’s no way that could be right.
“Akizawa-san, I believe you truly
care for Masahiko. But Masahiko doesn’t feel the same anymore.”
The words scraped his heart like
sandpaper.
“You’re not Masahiko. How could you
possibly know that?”
“Precisely because I’m not him,
there are things I can see. Masahiko cared about you too. But as you two kept
dating, his feelings changed. That’s why he chose to end the relationship.”
The words turned into sharp needles,
stabbing deep into his chest.
“Even if you tell Masahiko you still
love him, he probably won’t accept those feelings.”
“But… he’s alive, isn’t he?”
His voice was firm, needing
confirmation.
“He is. But he chose not to live his
life with you. I want you to think carefully about what that really means.”
“Even if he hates me, I can still
love him, right? If I wait, maybe someday he’ll love me again.”
Masamitsu looked at him with the
gaze one might give an abandoned kitten. “Akizawa-san, look…”
“It might sound cruel,” he said
softly, “but that day’s never going to come.”
The quiet blow to his hope made his
mind flare with heat.
“Not even God knows the future!”
"Akizawa-san… a broken glass
can’t be put back together. It’s the same thing."
“People’s hearts aren’t glass!”
“They aren’t—but they’re a lot
alike. Do you know why I told you that Masahiko had died, even though I didn’t
want to? Because he asked me to. He knew you. He knew that unless he
went that far, you wouldn’t let go of your obsession. I still don’t know if it
was the right way to handle things—maybe it would’ve been better to let you two
talk it out. But Masahiko was tired, and he was hurting… I’m over thirty now, a
full-grown man, and I still love my little brother. He gave up a stable job
just because of my selfishness, started a business with me, and worked his ass
off.”
Masamitsu crossed his arms and let
out a long breath.
“It’s been hard on me, lying to you.
Especially that first year—when you were falling apart. Even if love is a
private matter between two people, still… I always knew I’d have to tell you
eventually. I just didn’t think now would be the time.”
After a short pause, he went on.
“Do you want to go see Masahiko?”
Akizawa nodded without hesitation.
“I know where he’s living now. But I
won’t tell you. If you want to go find him on your own, I won’t stop you
anymore. But promise me one thing. If you see him, and he tells you he doesn’t
want to see you ever again—just walk away. Just quietly walk away.”
I don’t want to make that kind of
promise. So he
didn’t say yes. But Masamitsu laced his fingers together in front of his face
and pleaded in a small voice, “Please, promise me.”
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