Chapter Text
P.S., I still love you.
Those words came from a letter by Kisaragi. A month after the operation, he found it in his mailbox.
Even now, years later, he kept the letter, envelope and all, tucked away in a drawer at his desk. Every now and then he'd take it out and read it again. Once or twice he considered ripping it apart and throwing it into the fireplace, but all he did was keep it in that drawer.
He never really remembered anything else except for those words. It was some other stuff about work and school and life, but the only thing he could vividly remember were those words, written in tiny script at the bottom of the paper.
He remembered how those were the last words that Kisaragi had written to him ever since that day. They promised that they wouldn't see each other again until they both got their licenses (which he found in retrospect to be a bit cliché) and were both practicing medicine.
Some time ago, they had met in Yokohama, so perhaps getting a medical license wasn't the most crucial aspect of it.
Besides that, he wondered why he kept that letter after so much time. Did it really have that much sentimental value? He didn't know. When it came to Kisaragi, it felt like he didn't know anything. He wasn't exactly sure how he felt about Kisaragi, despite having renounced his feelings ever since the operation.
Then suddenly, a boy appeared, who told a certain doctor that he wanted to start over and apparently a referral to a certain clinic and a skin transplant was necessary for that.
Then there was a new letter from Kisaragi on his desk.
Those events culminated into his death. Skin transplants don't do any good on corpses. Yet, he still thought about that boy.
Maybe, like that boy, he could try to start over again.