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Sometimes he stands in an empty classroom and sees Suguru. He could be finishing a lesson with his students and packing up to leave. He could be there to finish his last bag of sweets in private without all the kids pestering him for some. He could be there to read a book. The sunlight would drift in through the open window panes and he would absently note the dust mites spiralling in the air and– there. Suguru’s ghost will appear on the edge of a table, illuminated by dusk, the spitting happy image of his high school self from before everything happened.
It could be winter and the cold air could be brushing up his arms. The memory of him and Suguru and Shoko tucked knee to knee amongst cramped little desks will surface like a drowning tide. Whatever book or paper before him in the present would be replaced with stacks of schoolwork. He would look to his left and see Suguru, lips pursed in focus. Suguru will notice him and smile, and he will lean over to knock his shoulder so he can ask a question about the lesson. He will feel something warm and fond exhale in his chest. The image slips through his grasp quicker than sand.
Sometimes he walks through the hallways and he sees Suguru pacing sedately behind him. He does not even turn around– there is a crisp image in his mind’s eye of Suguru, hands in pockets, arm in arm with dear Shoko whose hair flickers between the bob of her youth and the long tresses of adulthood. The image is hazy and convoluted, but for a short moment its quality sharpens like watching a video in HD. This is them walking out for lunch. They are arguing for something, but he does not remember what.
Sometimes he will sit in the mess hall and eat. Usually it’s takeout. Shoko will be too busy, Nanami has no patience for a meal with him, and he has no more friends. If he puts his phone down, when some unseen forces align, he sees the table fuller and busier. Suguru is reaching over to grab something from his bowl. He is grinning and whatever he’s saying is full of shit. Shoko is smoking calmly through a cigarette.
Sometimes he is only lying down in bed. He is nowhere near these classrooms. He is nowhere near the old hallways and faraway canteens. His room is new and sanitised of the past. It is a clean, sterile break from his high school years. His youth has never once touched his adult bedroom.
Still he will see them. These memories are only short flashes. They don’t even count as daydreams. But he will see Suguru in sharp, vivid clarity, and he will miss him. Just seeing the dark inky black of their school uniform will make him feel its distinct scratchiness crawling up his arm.
He will think, ah, I miss him. He will try to replay the memory, but memories don’t work like video players. It escapes his grasp no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it. He will momentarily be filled with the nebulous happiness of his youth. The world was small enough then that he felt large enough to swallow the sky.
Then he will get up. This new dawn is not as lonely as his memories make it out to be. There is work to do. There are students to teach. Suguru leaves his mind as quietly as he came. He is always there, but he is never pressing. He can always go back and examine those happy, carefree days in his dreams.
He will think, ah, I miss him; and then he moves on with his day.