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“—Amicable separation.”
Across the oak table, she shows no reaction.
She seems tired, probably because she’s been staying somewhere else. Her clothes from a cheaper place, hair and makeup not professionally done.
And now, she sits opposing him with another man—her lawyer, he reminds himself (even if the way he looks at her is hardly professional).
The first year—not that he’s been one in a long while—continues, “Against my counsel, my client will not be making a claim for any assets other than those she possessed before her marriage with Mr Kamurai.”
She keeps her gaze on the table, doesn’t so much as blink. He doesn’t know if she’s even listening. She just looks like she wants to get all this over with as quickly as possible, and he’s not sure where he went so wrong.
“She can keep everything,” he says before Shinjo moves on.
One of his lawyers starts next to him. “Mr Kamurai, why don’t we discuss—”
“The house, the car, the shares, everything—she can have them.”
His lawyers argue amongst themselves and reason with him, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. His eyes are fixed, as they have been from the beginning, on her. While she’s completely elsewhere, zoning out like she does when tired, or when everything’s too much.
She sighs. It’s not a particularly loud or wilful sigh, but it cuts through the bickering instantly.
Finally, she speaks, addressing no one in particular, “I don’t want them.”
And he hears, I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. She doesn’t look either—hasn’t spared a glance his way from the start—burning holes into the table instead.
“Leave,” he orders, eyes on her.
The lawyers glance her way, and when she continues her intense yet disinterested study of the table, they look back to him.
He finally glances their way and juts his chin. They scramble to obey his order.
“You too,” he says to Shinjo.
The man doesn’t budge and instead, looks to her. Gaze irritatingly soft.
She smiles at him, and places a gentle hand on his arm.
“I’m fine, Ritsu. I won’t be long.”
His eyes drag from her hand to her face. He wonders when he last saw her smile.
The door closes with a polite cha-clunk, and the space narrows in on them with the sound.
The room is her, him, and the deceptively short distance between them.
He feels the urge to clear his throat. Now that the overwhelming scent of expensive cologne is out of the room, his senses are filled with her light perfume, her slow breaths—each moves her shoulders slightly, the slow blinks of her eyes. Her eyes on his. Finally. It’s like looking into the sun, beautiful yet painful, wanting to look longer while wishing for relief.
Because he knows she would be perfectly willing for the two to sit silently until the end, he tries to break the silence.
He opens his mouth. Closes it, sighs, and runs a hand through his hair.
He settles on his words and starts over. “I know I wasn’t the best husband, but at least take them. They were all yours from the beginning.”
She sighs as well, an imperceptible thing if it wasn’t him. “I don't want them,” she repeats.
“Just take them. You don’t have to keep them. You can trash them, donate them, do whatever you want with them.”
A long silence spans the room. He thinks she’s about to give in.
Then she says, in an achingly quiet voice, “Money is the least likable thing about you, Jin. It always was.“
And for the first time since being served the papers, he doesn’t know what to say.
“I didn’t need the jewellery or the dresses, or ownership, or people bowing to me when I passed by; I just wanted my husband.”
“You had me.” Have me still, he thinks, but doesn’t let the words out.
She smiles a little at that, but her eyes are still sad.
“Is that why? I wasn’t around enough?” He begs for an answer to the question he’d asked countless times since this started, from when he received the notice, to watching as she left the house with nothing but a suitcase, and maybe even before that, when she stopped waiting for him to come home.
She shakes her head, but he can’t tell if it’s in answer. “I was greedy.” She shrugs, but she’s far away again, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. “I was already closer to you than anyone in the world. You were the way you were, and I knew I should accept that to love you. I thought I could wait until you could let your walls down a little.”
“I—” A sharp intake of breath.
"I thought it was fine if I was the one who loved you more," she continues, and though he wants to refute, he keeps listening. "I felt so lonely without you, I didn’t want to be without you. But I realised one day I was lonelier with you.” The words are a jagged arrow to his heart.
Her eyes glisten, and she looks down. He, like always, would do anything to make it stop.
He kneels in front of her and takes her hands into his. Pressing his furrowed brows against her, he begs, “I’m sorry. Don’t cry, please.”
She sniffles quietly to stop, and he shuts his eyes tighter, as if that would drown out the sound.
“You’re right, I focused on all the wrong things. I couldn't let you in. I thought if I worked harder instead, it would make you happier. I was an idiot. I’m sorry.”
He continues to blather out apologies, whatever to make her stop crying.
After her sobs subside, she takes a deep breath. Smiles a little at him and says, "I'm sorry too. I should have talked to you."
The words hang in the air. Both of them know that it wouldn't have changed anything.
He calls the lawyers back in, who politely ignore their red eyes and puffy faces.
After the major details are settled, the meeting adjourns.
His lawyers leave and even Shinjo tactfully makes an exit. They all know this is the last time they’ll be together.
Even though there’s still so much he wants to say to her, so much he wants to do—a lifetime’s worth—he knows it’s far too late.
The air of finality settles around them, and she faces him with a faint, wry smile on her lips. More relieved than bittersweet. She’s said her piece and maybe it’s fitting that he’ll never say his.
She steps closer and gives him a kiss on the cheek. The world narrows to the feel of her lips on him, her light breaths on his face, and her scent. If this were his world forever...
When she leans back, they gaze at each other for the last time.
In that moment, it feels like anything could happen. He feels like he could be someone else, someone better. He wants to ask her, wants to stop holding back the urge to beg, wants to promise all sorts of things, to run away and start over where nobody knows them. Maybe she would agree.
…And the moment is broken.
The click of the door closes him into this now vast space alone. Though he tries not to, his eyes follow her through the glass as she walks into a future without him.
She doesn’t look back.