Archive of Our Own

That day, you hit me first.

Or was it me? I can't remember, Suguru.

I do, though. I do remember.

But I can't make you the villain of my story anymore. I never wanted to in the first place. But you did hit me first while we were fighting over the soccer ball, and for some reason, I still don't know if it was the neighbor's dog barking loudly, that grandmother whispering something about uneducated children, or the embarrassing tears that escaped me, but you were never rude to me again.

And I wish I hadn't cried that day, because maybe, just maybe, you would have hit me again, and I would still be lucky enough to remember your skin brushing against mine.

We were just kids fighting over a ball, and sometimes I wonder if we were simply naively enjoying adolescence, or if perhaps there was some hidden meaning behind those small, innocent glances that somehow foreshadowed that this was only the beginning. And without knowing what life had in store for us, you stayed with me. And I stayed with you. And no dog ever barked at us again, nor did any old woman ever scold us again.

Time didn't stop to play with us that day we met, though. We soon grew old enough to understand that there was a world beyond my front porch, and after that summer, we stopped being children. We no longer fought over the ball, but over who got the last piece of bread or more coal for the fire, and our hands filled with blisters before they filled with dreams. In the end, we were just two village boys from a tiny place on the outskirts of Japan, where the train barely came three times a day.

I remember exactly the feeling of sitting by the tracks on our way back from the river, just to silently admire the grayish smoke disappearing among the fields, thinking, perhaps, that one day we would have the chance to follow it. Although it always seemed to me that I was following it, your hair moved in the wind in the same way.

It wasn't until later that I began to be aware of what I felt. I'm sure I was too obvious because ever since then, ever since I started looking at you differently, you seemed to do the same; to want the same, perhaps. Now you tucked the white strands of my hair behind my ears when the wind lashed us harder than expected, made sure I had the first bite when we ate, and even let me cast the line first; you hated seeing me catch a bigger fish everytime. You hated that, deep down, I was better, or so you used to mutter when you thought the breeze masked your annoyance.

So I didn't hold back and started turning off the radio (that screeched more than it played) whenever we were together so I could hear you better, because the silence between us was no longer awkward, but comforting. I let myself go more than once and brushed my fingers against your hands now and again while you passed me the axe we used to chop wood with. I got closer than necessary whenever we spoke in hushed tones so I could breathe in your scent, and I learned the expressions you made when something made you happy. Of course, I did my best to see the little wrinkles that formed at the corners of your eyes every time you smiled.

For a moment, though, I must admit I thought all of this made you sick. I thought I'd misinterpreted your signals like a lovesick fool and you were simply acting like just another friend. And it wasn't until that day, when you intertwined your fingers with mine with an almost painful gentleness, that I knew you were going down with me too.

Only you were quieter in doing so, while I was drowning loudly.

From then on, whatever it was between us became more obvious, warmer. Now you didn't hesitate to wipe my chin with your shirt whenever I got tomato sauce on it, and I would rest my head on your shoulder at the end of the day when we could finally get together after working at the factory; you let me do it freely, and I can say with certainty that your shoulder was, and will be, the most familiar place I've ever known.

The place where I could have peacefully rested until I died.

Eventually, the heat returned. The cicadas sang again, and the air was filled with the scent of freshly picked sweet melon. Work became heavier, hunger grew at home, and the animals became increasingly difficult to care for. None of that mattered, because the days were longer, the sun set later, and that meant we could escape for longer periods to wait together for the moon to rise almost at midnight. The moon, the same one that accompanied us so many times, that witnessed glances that lingered longer than was appropriate and the times we swallowed hard when we were too close to each other.

The same moon that, during that year's matsuri, witnessed the most beautiful night in the world.

The fireworks soared quickly across the starry sky. You had led me to the rice paddies, where no one was working anymore, so I could get a better look. You never let go of my hand, ignoring the sweat that soaked it and the trembling that ran through my euphoric fingers in yours. You kept me by your side the whole time. The colors exploded in the darkness, and, for a moment, I couldn't distinguish between their roar and the frantic beating of my heart. The sky turned reddish, and although at first I thought the light was painting your cheeks, I later understood it was shyness.

Or something very similar.

I could no longer pay attention to the spectacle unfolding before us, because I had simply found something better, something worthy of my attention. Your eyes shone innocently beneath the fireworks, and all I could do was admire in slow motion, as if the world slowed down precisely so that I could soak you in, the way you smiled as if you needed nothing more in this world. But as if my thoughts echoed loudly, you stopped looking up and looked at me instead, and still, after all, I'm not entirely sure why, but your eyes told me you were willing to risk everything in that instant. And I couldn't just let it go, I couldn't ignore the fact that my hand was still sweating, that my heart roared every time you said my name.

And then you said it:

“Satoru.”

And there was no need to do anything else, to say anything else, for me to accept that my heart had belonged to you for a long time. That it had always been yours, Suguru. That if you wanted to break it, that was your decision; it was no longer up to me to decide whether to save myself from the tragedy. So I let go of your hand so I could stroke your hair, which I had so often dreamed of touching like this. You closed your eyes at the gesture as if you too had longed for this moment before, with every shooting star; with every poppy. We let ourselves go and you asked my permission to do it. I only nodded because the words seemed to have become stuck in my throat.

And it hurt to try and force them out.

So I said nothing, I didn't utter a word, because the feeling of your lips on mine was enough to silence any thought.

Like a dog yearning for the warmth of a fire in winter, I moved closer to you. Your hands gently caressed the nape of my neck, which fit perfectly in your palm; my back, which seemed designed to be sculpted by your fingers. I cradled your face in my hands selfishly, because I never wanted to let you go. I never wanted this, us, to end.

I still remember, as if it were yesterday, your heavy breathing when we parted, your shy smile, and our innocent laughter.

Sadly, though, I don't remember the moment we stopped doing that. Eventually, we stopped going to the river and stealing plums from the garden behind the temple, something that for some reason made us laugh until we were breathless. It was our way of living, of overcoming uncertainty and fear, even if we weren't aware that this was what we were doing; what we were trying to do together.

You began to change the way you looked at the sky; you no longer dreamed of seeing what lay beyond, now you longed to ask it for answers. I couldn't take my eyes off you, off the dark circles that had appeared under your eyes, on the way you slightly arched your shoulders forward, heavy with the weariness that was slowly accumulating.

Somehow, I managed to become completely absorbed by you, and I'm sure you absorbed me too, because you immediately noticed. It was painfully obvious: my lack of attention, my monotonous responses, and the constant clicking of my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

I was angry, because you didn't care about anything anymore. And I wanted you to care.

We no longer felt the thrill of walking hand in hand through alleyways, because we simply didn't do it anymore. We didn't steal glances at each other, nor did we share comforting silences. We didn't tease each other about who had more holes in their shirt or whose pants were dirtier. We didn't even argue about who had more calluses on their hands. No one scolded us anymore for running near mines or chasing stray cats, because people no longer had time for that; it was more important to focus on holding onto as many memories as possible of what once was, before everything ceased to be.

Or at least that's what they were talking about, though we didn't understand. Not yet, clearly. Or at least I didn't.

The train slowly began to pass by only once, and we would no longer see the smoke. The plums stopped growing, and I might even venture to say that we stopped being ourselves, that you stopped loving me, perhaps. You no longer looked at me with hope, with the eagerness to conquer the world with me; you knew what this was all about, what people were starting to talk about in town. I, on the other hand, preferred to live in the lie that we would find a way out, that in the end, we would be alright together. And I held onto that feeling until the very end, although I don't think I ever told you; I was ashamed that maybe, somehow, you might realize that for me there was no world beyond you, beyond us.

But it was there, and it was terrifying. Perhaps the fact that our knees no longer touched when we sat, or that I could barely recognize your lips on my forehead anymore, made it a little more frightening for me. Though you didn't seem afraid of it, of course. You'd always wanted to appear better in front of me, afraid I'd think you were weak. But you never were, Suguru, not after all.

And the village began to fall silent. The morning yawns on weekdays were no longer heard, nor the murmur of neighbors greeting each other on the path to the well. The air, which had once smelled of rice and damp earth, began to taste of smoke and metal; of fear and worry. The men spoke more softly, the mothers spent more time gazing at the horizon in anguished silence, and the children stopped running to see who could get to the river first. Amidst the murmurs, rumors began to circulate. It was said that, beyond the mountains, something was happening; that the men would be called, that soon no one could remain idle.

No one said it openly, but everyone knew.

You knew, of course. I played dumb. The role of the skeptic suited me better. You had always been more cautious, braver.

Sometimes I'd catch you listening to the radio with a frown, and when you realized I was there, you'd change the station or say it was nothing. I didn't believe you. Or, I didn't want to believe you. I kept hoping you'd go back to being the way you were before, that you'd bump into me with your shoulder and laugh at one of my jokes. I told myself the town had always had rumors, that this worry would fade like summer. But people kept whispering about it, the radio kept repeating it, and the posters hanging on the houses grew more chilling each time.

I wondered, then, if maybe you were right. If they were all right.

Although I didn't want to believe it, of course. I tried my best to convince myself that it was nothing more than a little story to scare the children, a nightmare we'd soon wake up from.

I wasn't going to believe it until I saw the war unfold before my eyes.

But, to my surprise, recruitment letters soon arrived. Envelopes with army stamps that looked as if they'd been roughly wrapped. I'd never seen the red stamp so close up, until it arrived at your door sooner than expected. And at mine. We just stared at the letters, so neat, so impersonal, as if some official had decided our fate with a simple stamp.

And with a simple blink, like someone casually turning the page of a grimy book, everything changed.

The young men our age practiced marching drills in their backyards while their mothers sewed their uniforms, their grandmothers knitted handkerchiefs, and their fathers watched, both proud and worried. We soon passed the physical exams, and when the whole town gathered to see us off, I knew it was real. I couldn't do anything to stop it this time. We were going to fight, and not exactly like in the stories of warriors we'd fantasized about as children, but as soldiers. As children unaware that, with a lot of luck, they'd make it home sane.

But the Pacific was vast. You were at one base. And I was at another.

And amidst the murmurs of the crowd, I saw your eyes, the same eyes of that boy who hit me for a ball. I saw the same gaze that had promised me an eternity by your side so many times, and I saw my reflection in its violet hue; they looked moister than usual for the first time. And as if it knew this was our farewell, the memories struck me harder than necessary. Then I saw us in a fleeting memory, throwing stones into the lake, eager to throw farther than the other. Trying to catch birds with our bare hands, knowing that our clumsiness would always scare them away. Holding hands for the first time, ignoring the loud pounding of our hearts in our chests.

When you were mine, and I was yours.

And nothing remained of that, of what we had been, because our future held nothing like what I had always imagined. It scared me so much, Suguru. And I know it scared you too, from the way you clenched your fists, trying, somehow, to go back to the past and perhaps enjoy each other a little more. But no one intended to let us spend another minute together, and the train passed by again, and this time we boarded after the smoke, only not in the way we had imagined.

I got on first, the one that came before, heading east. I'm not sure what you did afterward, or if you even did anything, because the tears in my eyes didn't allow me to clearly capture those last few seconds of you. But I am aware of the last time I touched you, because I took your hand in mine and gave you a small, crumpled, misshapen piece of paper, with all that was left of me to give you.

With the three words I'd never had the chance to say to you:

"I love you".

And of course you knew what I'd written, because you hugged me tightly as if you didn't want to let me go. I then knew you still felt the same way. Despite your distance from me lately, the emotionless words and empty stares, I knew you were still the same Suguru, my Suguru. It's just that you'd always been realistic about life, and I couldn't blame you for being cold towards me; I could only blame myself for downplaying what was really happening, what you were feeling, your fear.

I couldn't blame you for putting your desires before mine, before us, because you always wanted to fight. You always wanted to stand up for what was right, to make our place better, more prosperous. I knew it from the day you spoke of serving the emperor with that mixture of fear and pride in your eyes. I pretended not to understand, but I already knew that, sooner or later, it would all come true; war would eventually come, because not everyone in the world wants to spend their days in peace, under the same sky. Some simply see destruction and chaos before their eyes, and, unfortunately, the rest of us end up prisoners of that malice.

I used to think that evil wasn't born of ambition, but of fear: fear of losing, fear of not being remembered. Maybe that's why so many men went to war, seeking in the noise of gunfire a reason to exist, to be remembered. You, on the other hand, did it out of faith; because you believed that something could still be built among the ruins. And though your cause broke my heart, it also sustained me. And it sustained me because, despite everything, you were doing it for me.

And then, you whispered in my ear in a way I'll never forget:

"Come back, so you can tell me in person". 

And you let me cry on your shoulder one last time before the train's whistle decided it was time to let us go. To let you go. To say goodbye. I didn't look back as it departed between the tracks, and I never got around to telling you that I saw you crying inconsolably in the reflection of the train car. I smiled through the bitterness because, deep down, I was sure that in the end, when all this was over, we would meet again and I could tell you.

But, to tell the truth, that hopeful ending gradually began to drift away from reality.

From being a possibility at all.

Because here, on the front lines, nothing was the same. The cold seeped into your bones, and rest was a fleeting luxury between the bombings. Not to mention we barely had a chance to eat anything. The smell of gunpowder and blood became so commonplace that I could hardly distinguish it from the air itself; it was as if the whole world smelled only of that, of death. And with every explosion, with every shot, I couldn't help but wonder if it was you firing. If you had miraculously found a way back to me.

In the worst-case scenario, I feared it was you being shot at, and that robbed me of sleep more nights than I'd care to admit. Sometimes, even through the fog, as if in a nightmare, I thought I saw your violet eyes staring at me from afar, devastated; empty.

Looking at the sky was the only thing that kept me tethered to reality, to the everyday, to you. Because, somehow, I clung to the idea that if we could both look at the same sky every day, then we weren't so far apart; that, despite everything, there was still a possibility of meeting again someday.

And I prayed for it, I promise, I did. I prayed to anyone who could hear me to put me back in your path, because without you by my side I didn't want to reach my destination, I couldn't.

Then I dedicated my free time to what I do best: thinking about you. And I wondered many times if, from there, from wherever you were, you could remember me at some point. I thought that I would have liked to caress your face more often, or that I should have looked at you more carefully to prevent my clumsy mind from forgetting your details as time passed.

That was impossible, though.

How could I forget you, Suguru?

I laughed heavily, unable to stop thinking about what we would do when we saw each other again. Perhaps we would leave our families behind and run away to a place far from here. Then, we would buy a little house and live together, and we wouldn't fight over the straw pillow anymore because we would each have one. With a little bit of luck, you'd let me take you to the beach, and there, behind some rocks that would shield us from the crowd, I'd kneel with an iron ring I'd forged myself at the blacksmith's. Of course, a ring wouldn't do justice to the future I envisioned with you.

A future where I could tell you I love you every day.

Because until now, I'd been nothing but a fool. A spineless fool.

So I decided to dare to return the favor, and this time I wrote to you first. A small piece of paper that didn't even have trouble slipping through the mailbox slot, and that only you would understand:

"Suguru, I hope to eat plums with you again."

And I couldn't stop imagining your face when you realized I was still standing. Of course, I also couldn't imagine the happiness I would feel upon receiving your reply. But your front line was further ahead than mine, and at first, I assumed it would take longer than expected to arrive. But the days passed, and with them, the weeks, and you still hadn't answered me.

I could only imagine the worst.

Everything around me took on the same tone of expectation: a stillness filled with annoying noises, distant gunshots, insistent insects and murmurs that carried no news. Every evening, when the mail arrived, the men would gather in front of the sergeant, eager to hear their name among the list of lucky ones who would get to read a letter that day. I always stayed back, pretending not to pay attention, but my emotions always betrayed me.

You know I've always been a little emotional, Suguru.

They never seemed to remember me, because they never said my name.

But I kept waiting, I kept waiting for you. And in the process, I may have lost a part of myself. Because there was no me without you. Now my collarbones protruded more than usual, swallowing food was a little harder, and the nights became a torture instead of a chance to rest.

But I waited, because we'd always been patient with each other; because it was our way of loving: quiet, constant. And sometimes I liked to imagine you sitting on the floor, knees bent, a piece of paper in your hands and a pencil between your teeth. Under the starry night light, writing in cramped handwriting, careful not to smudge the paper with mud. So, I couldn't help but delude myself into thinking that, perhaps, you'd already sent me the reply and it was on its way to me at that very moment, meticulously folded inside a yellowed envelope. Maybe, just like that.

But three weeks had already passed. Three.

The first one seemed like a joke. I echoed my note countless times before falling asleep, thinking that maybe I hadn't been close enough with my words. That you simply hadn't understood, or that my handwriting was so bad you hadn't even had the chance to decipher it. But I wish you had understood, because secretly, my words were a reminder of how much I needed you with me. How much I missed you.

The second one came laden with doubt. Maybe it hadn't arrived. Maybe it had been discarded. Maybe it had been lost along the way. Maybe you didn't want to reply. I thought about sending you another one, something more casual, but when I saw the blank paper in front of me, I didn't know what to say without sounding desperate. I wrote a similar note, though I never sent it. It probably sank into the rain, in my lack of madness.

The third week dragged silence along with it. Not the silence of the early morning, but the one that leaves the heart when it gets used to something that will never come; to receiving no answer. There were moments when, gripped by madness, I thought I heard you calling my name on the horizon, though it always ended up dissolving amidst the roar of the airplanes.

Then came acceptance. And my heart seemed to turn as hard as a rock. The blue of my eyes was now dull in the reflection of the pools of blood. My hands knew no other purpose than to hold a gun and fire, and my aching body had grown accustomed to the cold of the cabins. To the cold that your absence left in my soul.

One morning it rained, hard. It didn't usually rain here, but when it did, the earth smelled of rust and rot. Sometimes I managed to catch glimpses of us dancing in the rain, without remorse. Although it all seemed too distant, too fictional. As if I had dreamed it in another life. The sergeant arrived and announced that the mail would be later than usual that day, that the convoy had been intercepted and some sacks had been lost along the way.

I imagined your letter floating on the seashore, the waves of salt water dragging away your careful handwriting, undoing the pieces of you that you still kept for me.

But then, amidst the mountain of rotten thoughts, mid-morning the sergeant returned, and this time, as if by magic, he seemed to have come back to give me something back. At first, I thought I'd misheard him, or even imagined it.

But he muttered my name again, roughly.

Unimportant.

But it was the most important thing I'd ever heard.

It was me, it was my name. I barely managed to clumsily move to pick up my letter, which slipped through my hands the same way I slid to my knees. The paper was damp and smelled of dust, but none of that mattered because, despite that, I managed to read my name in one corner of the envelope. And yours on the opposite side.

My heart was racing so fast I thought it might kill me right then and there. I didn't hesitate to tear open the envelope to get the paper out, with the same urgency as someone who struggles to breathe. When I finally mustered up enough courage to unfold it from its perfect folds, I saw your handwriting on the page, staring at me, and my tears, as they fell, clumsily undid the ink.

I read you slowly, Suguru. I savored every single letter you'd written for me, because I was afraid your words would vanish if I read them too quickly. I heard your voice on the page, as if you were right there behind it. Each line was a gentle tap, a silent proof that you were still here, existing. That the world, despite everything, hadn't yet managed to erase you.

"I hope I'm the one who keeps wiping your chin when you get it dirty. I'll see you on the other side."

And it was enough to bring me back to life. To bring me back to peace. Because you were still alive, because despite everything, you had found a way back to me. That day I was able to sleep at night, I ate like I used to and my collarbones stopped showing through the thin layer of my skin.

And after that, the months passed so quickly that I didn't have time to notice the changing seasons, the men gradually ceasing to arrive at the base, and the lives we were simultaneously leaving behind. Because that's what war was about, and I was sure you handled it better than me, than anyone.

You'd probably been promoted; now you must been in command, because you'd always been a better leader than me. Because I wasn't good at this.

I think, honestly, I was only good at being with you.

Then a year went by.

And every day was a reminder that we would see each other again. That beyond the stone walls and the cracked wooden huts, we were waiting for each other. As always.

Two years.

And I could only imagine you with me, by my side, perhaps adopting that stray dog ​​from our neighborhood and giving it a new home with us. 

Three years.

And the letters gradually stopped arriving. They took away our permission to send messages frequently, things got more complicated by the minute, and now we could only communicate once a month. I still keep your last note in my bedside table drawer, the one where you struggled so hard to admit you missed me.

Four years.

And there were hardly any men left at the base. I became immune to gunpowder and pulling the trigger. The word future was now shrouded in a great black veil that prevented me from seeing beyond what was simply in front of my eyes: destruction.

Five years.

And we had all lost our minds; only you kept me going.

And then, I couldn't help but start thinking about what would have happened if everything had been different. If we could have lived together in peace and maybe continued working in the old factory in town, grown up like two country boys hoping to see beyond the rice paddies. And, even though I tried not to think about it, I couldn't stop dwelling on the time we wasted, prisoners of shame; two rebellious teenagers who simply didn't know how to handle what they felt in a society that might never tolerate their behavior. But I was a fool, because I should have kissed you in the middle of the town square in front of everyone, I should have stroked your cheek more, and I should have snuggled closer to you when we slept in your family's barn.

I should have chosen you over what people would say.

You, my one and only.

I was sure I would when we got out of here, out of this chaos that had painfully condemned each and every one of us.

But the hope was gone. No one dreamed of leaving because no one believed there was a way out, a future beyond the devastation that surrounded us. No one spoke anymore, no one told silly jokes to clear the mornings or delivered mail because no one had the strength to write a note. And in my head, there was now more room for the screams, lifeless stares and the bombs that were slowly obliterating everything that remained what I had once fantasized would be my home.

The August heat made the uniforms feel heavy against my skin, and the sweat on my hands made my weapon slip through my fingers. I barely had the strength to stand in the mornings; the food had no flavor beyond the blandness it provided, and I would even venture to say that the moon no longer had the same color as before.

Before, when we still had our whole lives ahead of us.

When we still had dreams to fulfill, places to visit, and promises to keep.

None of that existed anymore. No part of me remained intact; I was built from the pieces I'd barely managed to hold together over these years. I'd forgotten how to joke, how to smile, how to be myself. I was afraid you wouldn't recognize me, that you wouldn't like the new me. I was afraid you'd be disgusted by what I'd become: a tangle of gray hair and endless dark circles that seemed to firmly dictate my lack of serenity. A war machine that only moved to the rhythm of the sergeant's shouts and the distant explosions.

I could only hope that you had managed to stay strong better than I had. I hoped you still had the same wrinkles under your eyes, that your nose was still just as pointed, and that you certainly hadn't forgotten who you were. I hoped your eyes still held that same innocent sparkle, that you still yawned in the mornings, that you were still my Suguru.

Then the breeze stopped carrying ash and started carrying whispers instead.

It was said that the emperor would speak soon, and although no one seemed to know what it meant, everyone lowered their guard a little, as if waiting for the news was a relief in itself. A disconnection from reality. The camp radio crackled with messages no one quite understood, and the officers whispered among themselves about the emperor, about a possible end, though no one could say when or how.

I couldn't stop thinking about you.

And I'm afraid it was always going to be like this.

I sat down beside a ruined wall that we ourselves had just demolished and closed my eyes. I could imagine you laughing at your base, maybe wondering if we would ever meet again. I remembered your laugh, how you twisted your mouth when we argued over trivial things, and how you always signed your letters with your name followed by a small drawn doodle.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest and had to take deep breaths to keep from collapsing.

The camp was silent for the first time in weeks. The explosions had become less frequent, and the sergeant's orders seemed hollow, as if we all knew something was changing even though no one said a word. I walked among the other soldiers, noticing how they stared at the sky, as if every cloud and every gust of wind might bring the news we were all waiting for.

I looked up too, and I saw nothing but smoke and a grayish blue that seemed to offer no promise.

Eventually, it happened. The announcement.

The Emperor dictated the surrender of the Japanese army on August 15, 1945, through the camp radio services. The men embraced each other, threw their caps in the air, and their weapons bounced off the rubble on the ground as they fell. I watched from a distance, my heart pounding. I couldn't hold back a few tears when I heard the sirens in the distance announcing our retreat. Announcing the end.

Announcing our beginning.

And I collapsed to the ground, stones digging into my palm, but none of that mattered because hell was finally over. I was finally going to see you again, finally going to hold you in my arms, Suguru. A whirlwind of emotions escaped me, and a loud cry burst from the depths of my throat. I'm sure that wherever you were, you heard it.

That night we cracked jokes again, we sang along to the crickets' chirping, and once again, we felt alive. We talked about everything we would do when we got home: some would take care of their parents, others would help with the housework, and I told them about you. I told them I had someone special, and this time, Suguru, I didn't nod when they asked if it was a girl.

To my surprise, there weren't too many strange looks. Just a couple of pats on the back that I didn't quite know how to interpret.

The train arrived quickly the next morning, stopping with a familiar screech that was both eerie and comforting. I stepped off, my hands in my uniform pockets, clutching your letter tightly, as if that would bring me a little closer to you. The boys who had managed to arrive sane hugged their families tightly, a promise never to be separated again. I sighed as I left the carriage and walked along the dusty streets, littered with splinters and the remnants of what had once been.

People weren't making much noise; the silence marked the mourning for those who were no longer with us. My footsteps echoed on the gravel as I unconsciously made my way to the other side of the station to wait for your arrival. To welcome you with open arms, as I had dreamed of doing all these years. Every shadow and every reflection seemed to prolong the illusion, and my heart pounded clumsily in my chest, euphoric at the prospect of being reunited with you.

I thought about how I would hug you when I saw you, whether I would throw myself straight into your arms or perhaps first briefly contemplate that I finally had you with me. I didn't look up as the sergeants distributed the uniforms of the deceased to their families, but a part of me cringed at the thought of what you would do if one of them were me. What a joke that I've managed to stay on my feet until now.

But we would laugh about that later.

A cherry blossom leaf fell onto my shoulder, resting meticulously, warmly caressing my skin as if it didn't want to disturb my peace. I thought about the naps we could take in its shade during these hot months, and how loudly you would snore in my ear despite my attempts to quiet you.

And I smiled.

I smiled because I was finally home.

Broken, but safe.

A cough pulled me from my reverie. A sergeant was carrying a small bundle wrapped delicately in a cloth. There were no words at first, until he called my name. I nodded. He glanced at me and turned back the way he'd come. My hands began to tremble, anticipating what was happening even though my heart was still unable to comprehend it. I gasped like a fish out of water, searching for something to say, any sound that might escape my throat, but all I managed was a jumble of nonsensical words.

Cherry blossoms were slowly falling onto the still-unwrapped package. Then, after what felt like an eternity of silently watching them pile up, I clumsily untied the knot, my fingers unable to move properly. I swallowed hard as the cloth fell to the ground without a sound, and I saw, neatly folded, your uniform resting in my hands.

Your name engraved on a name tag.

Suguru Geto.

And I blinked like an idiot, I blinked because I couldn't control the sobs that threatened to steal my breath. I clung to your uniform as best I could, which, despite everything, still smelled like you. It was still yours, still my home. A piece of paper fell to the floor with the same rhythm as a dove's feather, silent but precise. It took me longer than necessary to bend down to pick it up and open it, and when I finally had the strength to read it, you had just taken my heart with you with the four words written on it:

"I love you too."

And as if death wanted to take me with you, my legs couldn't bear the weight of everything I was carrying as I collapsed to the floor, lost in the piercing pain in my chest that was about to finish me off. Because nothing mattered anymore. Because it didn't matter that I was home; I could never go back to my home, to you. Nothing made sense anymore if you weren't walking beside me.

And it should have been me instead. I should have been the one to leave.

And I hate you. I hate you for leaving without me.

Because I'll never be myself again without you. Because we'll never be able to move to the coast, and I'll never be able to ask you to marry me. I won't be able to tell you how much I love you, and I won't have the chance to let you tell me either. Because we should have watched the fireworks again, you should have let me cast the line first again, and we should have let another old woman call us rude. Because you promised to wipe my chin when I got it dirty with plums again.

But that can never happen again; it can only become a stinging memory in the back of my head that hurts every time it's recalled. Because I'll never be able to forget your laugh and the way you clutched your stomach when you laughed, the brush of your nose against mine or the warmth of your chest when you let me rest my head on it.

Because I'll never be able to forget you, Suguru.

And I hate myself for it, because the years go by and I'm still here, exactly where you left me. Time passes and I still dream of your voice. I dream that one day you'll walk through my door and hug me like you used to.

But in reality, I can't hate you.

I can't hate you because every time I look out my window and see the sea, I see you reflected. Sometimes, and when my memory allows, I indulge in imagining us running along the sandy shore, racing to see who gets to the water first. Other times, on the days I miss you the most, I sit and watch the waves crash against the rocks while I fiddle with the iron ring on my left hand, the same one I promised to give you. Then, when I finally manage to reach the front door as fast as my walking stick allows, I get a little emotional reading our last names on the door. Side by side. And when I make dinner, I see your uniform hanging in a large frame in the living room, above the sofa where the dog sleeps.

The sofa where you and I should watch TV together. I would gently brush your gray hair while you read the newspaper, and then we would go to sleep, waking up the next day to make honey pancakes for breakfast. Then we would play cards, and at sunset we would walk the dog while chatting about what we would do the following day.

But those are just fantasies.

Now my mornings are a little more solitary. I don't eat pancakes or play cards, but I do walk the dog and spend my time thinking about you. 

About when I will see you again.

About whether I will be with you soon.

And I hope that when I do, you will give me a big hug.

With love, your Satoru Gojo