The first thing Taiga noticed when they arrived was the silence.
Not the empty kind, but the kind that hummed with cicadas and ocean wind. The kind that wrapped itself around your chest and whispered: breathe.
He stepped out of the car and felt it — the stillness, the warmth, the faint sting of salt in the air. His fingers gripped the car door longer than necessary. Behind him, Hokuto was still fumbling with the seatbelt, humming under his breath like he always did when he didn’t want Taiga to know he was tired.
The sea stretched endlessly behind the house — blue and gold, like a painting too perfect to be real. Taiga had found the listing late one night, after scrolling past a dozen options that all looked the same. This one had felt right. Quiet. Far enough from the city to feel like another world.
He told Hokuto it was just a break.
He didn’t say it was goodbye.
“Nice place,” Hokuto said as he stepped out, shielding his eyes from the sun. “You sure we’re not squatting?”
Taiga forced a grin. “I paid. I have receipts this time.”
Hokuto smirked, tugging his duffel bag from the back seat. “Miracles do happen.”
They laughed.
It sounded real. It wasn’t.
The house was small — wooden floors, white curtains swaying with the breeze, the scent of lavender and sea air mixing in the hallway. Hokuto explored like a kid, flinging open every door, calling out every little detail.
“Yo, the bathtub has jets!”
“There's a hammock outside! I’m claiming it.”
“I found a rice cooker. We’re saved.”
Taiga trailed behind, memorizing everything — not the house, but Hokuto in it. The way he scrunched his nose at dust. The soft way he touched the walls, like he was grounding himself. The brightness in his eyes that hadn’t been there in months.
It made Taiga’s throat ache.
He carried the bags in quietly. Hokuto didn’t let him carry his — too stubborn, even now. Even when Taiga could see the effort it took to climb the stairs.
Taiga watched him disappear into one of the bedrooms and let his smile fall.
Three months. That’s what the doctor had said.
Maybe less.
He had heard it by accident — a voice message left unprotected, a name he wasn’t supposed to recognize, a scan result meant for Hokuto’s eyes only.
He’d stood there for ten minutes, unmoving, while the world rearranged itself around him.
And now they were here. At the edge of everything.
That night, they ate instant curry on the porch. Hokuto leaned back in the old wooden chair, eyes closed, swaying slightly with the sea breeze. The sky above was scattered with stars, clear and endless.
Taiga sat beside him, pretending not to stare.
“You ever think about quitting?” Hokuto asked suddenly, voice soft. “Like… leaving everything and just living somewhere like this.”
“Every day,” Taiga said.
Hokuto cracked one eye open. “Liar.”
“Okay. Every week.”
That earned him a quiet laugh. The sound made something twist in Taiga’s chest.
“Do you want to?” Taiga asked. “Quit?”
Hokuto didn’t answer right away. He looked out at the sea, his expression unreadable.
“I want…” He paused. “I want to be selfish for once.”
Taiga turned to him, but Hokuto was already looking away.
The wind picked up. The waves crashed a little louder.
Taiga wanted to scream.
He wanted to shake him, beg him to fight, tell him he knew.
But he didn’t.
He just sat there, listening to the silence between them.
Because Hokuto didn’t want him to know.
And Taiga — Taiga would pretend, for as long as he could bear it.
Morning came slowly.
The sun filtered through thin curtains, casting golden lines across the wooden floor. The scent of sea salt drifted through open windows, and cicadas began their quiet chorus outside.
Taiga was already awake.
He didn’t sleep much these days — not since he’d found out. Most nights, he just watched Hokuto breathe beside him, the soft rise and fall of his chest a constant reminder: he’s still here. He’s still here.
This morning, Hokuto looked peaceful.
He lay curled on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other stretched toward Taiga’s empty side of the bed. His lips were slightly parted, his hair messy from the sea air, and Taiga’s heart clenched at the sight.
He wanted to freeze this moment.
Bottle it. Keep it somewhere safe.
Because it was only a matter of time before mornings like this became memories.
Taiga got up carefully, grabbing his hoodie and slipping outside. The porch was warm under his bare feet. He sat on the steps and watched the ocean.
It was too beautiful for a world where Hokuto would no longer exist.
Later that morning, Hokuto shuffled into the kitchen, still half-asleep, wearing one of Taiga’s oversized shirts.
“You made coffee?” he yawned.
“I thought you hated my coffee,” Taiga said.
“I do. But I’m too lazy to make my own.”
Taiga handed him a mug. Hokuto took it with a lazy smile and leaned against the counter, sipping it slowly.
They ate breakfast in silence — toast, fruit, leftover rice. Hokuto picked at his food more than he ate it, but Taiga didn’t comment.
Instead, he said, “Let’s go to the beach today.”
Hokuto looked up. “You mean… now?”
“Yeah. Let’s just walk. Explore. No plan.”
There was a flicker in Hokuto’s eyes — hesitation. Pain, maybe. But he nodded. “Okay.”
The beach was a ten-minute walk downhill.
They strolled past fields of tall grass, little shrines tucked under trees, an old fisherman waving from his boat as they passed.
Taiga wanted to memorize it all.
When they reached the shore, Hokuto kicked off his shoes and waded into the water immediately, jeans rolled up to his knees.
“Still cold!” he yelled.
Taiga laughed, following behind. “You’ll get used to it.”
They stayed there for hours — collecting shells, skipping stones, chasing seagulls like kids. For a while, it felt normal.
But then, as the sun climbed higher, Taiga saw it.
Hokuto’s steps slowed.
His smile wavered.
His hand pressed briefly to his side — quick, like he hoped Taiga wouldn’t notice.
But Taiga always noticed.
“Hey,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Wanna sit for a bit?”
Hokuto blinked, then nodded. “Yeah… yeah, maybe just for a second.”
They found a rock shaded by a leaning pine tree. Hokuto sat down heavily, chest rising a little faster than it should. He wiped his forehead and looked out at the waves.
“This place is nice,” he said softly. “It feels like time doesn’t exist here.”
Taiga sat beside him.
“Maybe we should stay,” he whispered. “Not just this summer. Just… stay.”
Hokuto turned to him slowly. There was a look in his eyes — something Taiga couldn’t quite name. Regret. Fear. Maybe love.
“We can’t stay,” Hokuto said, and smiled. “Not really.”
Taiga swallowed hard. “Why not?”
Hokuto leaned back, resting his head against the tree trunk, closing his eyes.
“Because dreams don’t last forever.”
And Taiga —
He almost said it.
“I know you’re dying.”
“Don’t leave me.”
But instead, he reached out and held Hokuto’s hand.
Quiet. Gentle.
As if maybe that alone could stop the clock.
( Flashback Chapter – The Beginning )
Tokyo nights were loud.
Neon lights bled into the rain-slick streets. The city buzzed with the weight of people chasing dreams they weren’t sure they believed in. For most, it was just another Thursday.
For Taiga, it was the night he fell in love.
They had just finished another long rehearsal — one of those exhausting pre-tour run-throughs where everything went wrong: mics failed, steps were forgotten, the choreographer yelled so loud Taiga thought he’d go deaf.
He was soaked in sweat, voice hoarse, his limbs dragging.
Everyone else had left already.
Except for Hokuto.
Taiga found him sitting alone in the practice room, lights dimmed, knees pulled to his chest, watching the city from the window.
"You good?" Taiga asked, grabbing a towel from his bag and tossing it over his shoulder.
Hokuto didn’t look away from the glass. “Yeah. Just… staying a bit.”
It was the way he said it — too quiet. Too tired.
Taiga hesitated, then sat down beside him. The city stretched beneath them like a broken mirror, full of color and noise. Inside the room, it was calm.
“I know what today felt like,” Taiga said softly. “It sucked.”
Hokuto let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I kept messing up. I could see it on their faces. Like I didn’t belong.”
“That’s not true.”
“Feels like it.”
They sat in silence.
Taiga glanced sideways. Hokuto’s profile was lit faintly by the streetlights below — his lashes long, his jaw tight, his hands clenched around his knees. And for a moment, all the noise in Taiga’s head just… stopped.
He’d known Hokuto for years. They’d fought, laughed, trained, eaten in the same cramped dressing rooms. But this — this was the first time he saw him unarmored.
And that was the moment it happened.
No music. No fireworks. Just
click
— something inside him shifting quietly.
“I think you’re trying too hard to be perfect,” Taiga said gently.
Hokuto blinked. “Isn’t that the point?”
“No. The point is to be you. That’s what people love. That’s what I …”
He trailed off.
His heart kicked.
Too much. Too soon.
But Hokuto turned to him, eyes soft.
“What about you?” he asked. “You ever feel like quitting?”
Taiga smiled, same words from a future they hadn’t lived yet. “Every week.”
That made Hokuto laugh. A real one, this time.
“You always know what to say,” he murmured. “It pisses me off.”
“Good,” Taiga said, bumping his shoulder. “I live to annoy.”
The room felt warmer then.
And just when Taiga thought the moment would end —
Hokuto leaned his head against his shoulder. Quiet. Unapologetic.
Taiga didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
His heart beat too loud. Too fast.
But Hokuto stayed like that — like it was normal. Like they’d always been that close.
Taiga closed his eyes and let himself have it.
Just a little longer.
He didn’t know then how short time would be.
How one day, he’d sit by a beach with Hokuto’s hand in his, and wonder where all the hours went.
The sun had begun its descent when they walked back from town.
The sky was awash in orange and lilac, the air thick with the scent of grilled fish from a nearby market. Hokuto had insisted on going — said he wanted to buy fresh ingredients, cook something himself for once.
Taiga had hesitated, but Hokuto’s smile was radiant, his hand warm around Taiga’s wrist. “Just a quick trip,” he’d said. “Like we’re real people for once.”
So they went.
They laughed down quiet alleys, shared snacks on the way home, argued over miso brands like an old married couple.
For a while, it felt like a dream they could live in.
But dreams never hold.
It happened halfway up the hill — just a few steps from their rental house.
Taiga was ahead, carrying a paper bag of ingredients. Hokuto was humming behind him, telling a story about a crab he swore tried to fight him at the fish stall.
Then suddenly — silence.
A thud.
Taiga turned.
The bag dropped.
Hokuto was on his knees, one hand pressed against the dirt, the other clutching his side. His face was pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breath came in shallow gasps.
“Hokuto!”
Taiga dropped to his side, grabbing his shoulders.
“I’m fine—” Hokuto whispered, but his voice trembled. His body was shaking.
“You’re not fine,” Taiga said, panic creeping in. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
“I didn’t want to ruin it,” Hokuto choked out. “Not yet.”
Taiga stared at him, throat tight.
“You knew I’d figure it out eventually,” he whispered. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Hokuto’s eyes widened.
Silence.
Then — “You… know?”
Taiga’s hands curled into fists. “Since before we came here.”
The truth hung in the air between them. Heavy. Inevitable.
Hokuto looked away. His voice was barely a breath.
“I didn’t want you to look at me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m already gone.”
Taiga felt the tears sting. “You’re not.”
“But I will be,” Hokuto whispered.
They sat there in the dirt, the sky bleeding into night, the waves crashing distantly below them. The food lay forgotten. The summer no longer felt endless.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Taiga asked.
Hokuto closed his eyes. “Because if I said it out loud… it would be real.”
Taiga reached out, brushing dirt from his cheek, fingers trembling.
“It’s already real,” he said. “But I’m still here.”
Later, Taiga helped him inside. No more pretending. No more quiet lies.
He made soup with trembling hands, fed Hokuto spoonful by spoonful even when he insisted he could do it himself. He tucked him into bed, stayed by his side, watched the rise and fall of his chest like a prayer.
And when Hokuto finally slept —
Taiga cried.
Silently. Desperately.
Because now there were no more illusions.
Only time.
And the sound of it running out.
The next morning, Taiga woke to the smell of something sweet.
He blinked blearily, momentarily confused — until he remembered: last night. Hokuto collapsing. The truth finally shattering between them like glass.
The house was quiet. No sounds of coughing. No footsteps.
Taiga sat up in panic, rushing to the kitchen—
Only to find Hokuto at the stove, wearing his old hoodie and stirring something in a pot.
“Morning,” Hokuto said, voice light. “You sleep like a rock.”
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Taiga said immediately, crossing the kitchen in three quick strides.
“I am resting. Standing resting.”
“Hokuto—”
“I made you sweet potato soup,” he interrupted. “It’s not amazing, but it’s warm. You like warm things, right?”
Taiga stared. Hokuto looked calm. Tired, but calm. And suddenly, Taiga wanted to cry again.
“Come sit,” Hokuto said. “Before I collapse dramatically again and scare you.”
Taiga sat.
They ate together in silence. Taiga couldn’t taste anything. His throat was tight. Hokuto was pretending again — but this time, it wasn’t to hide the truth. It was to soften the edges of it.
He was trying to make Taiga feel better.
That hurt more than anything.
After breakfast, Hokuto stood slowly and disappeared into the bedroom. He came back a moment later, holding something in both hands.
A black notebook.
“What’s this?” Taiga asked as Hokuto handed it to him.
“I’ve been writing,” Hokuto said softly. “Since the hospital. Letters. Thoughts. Things I couldn’t say to your face. In case… you know.”
Taiga’s hands trembled slightly as he flipped it open.
Each page was filled in Hokuto’s handwriting. Some were messy, smudged, rushed. Some were perfect — like he’d taken extra care with the curve of every letter.
One page read:
“Sometimes I look at you and think — how unfair it is, that I won’t get to see you old.”
Another:
“If you ever forget my voice, I recorded that stupid karaoke video on purpose. It’s in the locked folder on your phone. You’re welcome.”
And one, toward the back, in shakier writing:
“Please forgive me for leaving first.”
Taiga closed the notebook carefully. His hands gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
“I can’t read all of this now,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to,” Hokuto said gently. “It’s just… something for later. So you don’t forget the good parts.”
“I won’t forget any of it,” Taiga said. “That’s the problem.”
Hokuto smiled, sad and soft.
“Good,” he said. “That means I did something right.”
That evening, they went to the cliffside just before sunset.
The light was golden, the waves calm.
Hokuto brought a camera.
“Let’s take one,” he said. “Just one. The last one.”
Taiga stood beside him. Hokuto set the timer. They posed casually — shoulders touching, hands hidden behind them.
But just before the shutter clicked, Hokuto turned his head.
He looked at Taiga — really looked. Eyes gentle. Mouth slightly open, like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
Click.
The photo caught it — the fading light in his eyes. The way Taiga was looking at him like he already missed him.
They didn’t say anything after. They just stood there, watching the sun disappear into the sea.
And when Hokuto slipped his hand into Taiga’s, it was so soft that it almost didn’t feel like goodbye.
But it was.
The storm rolled in around midnight.
Winds howled down the cliffs. Rain lashed against the windows, thunder rumbling like distant grief. The entire house seemed to breathe with the storm — creaking, shivering, alive with tension.
Taiga was still awake.
He sat at the edge of the bed, listening. The power had gone out an hour ago, leaving them in near-darkness. A single candle flickered on the nightstand, its light dancing across the walls like ghosts.
Hokuto lay curled up under the blanket, facing the window. Silent.
Taiga had been counting his breaths.
Still steady.
Still here.
But then —
“Hokuto?” he whispered.
No answer.
Taiga moved closer. He reached out, fingers gently brushing against Hokuto’s shoulder.
And that’s when he felt it — the shaking.
Small. Rhythmic. Not from cold.
But from tears.
Taiga’s heart cracked open.
He slipped under the blanket, pulling Hokuto close without a word. Hokuto didn’t resist. He buried his face into Taiga’s chest like a child, trembling, and finally — finally — let himself cry.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was quiet. Raw.
A boy dying before he was ready. A boy who had dreamed of more time, more music, more mornings in messy sheets.
“I don’t want to go,” Hokuto whispered.
Taiga held him tighter. “I know.”
“I’m scared,” he choked. “Not of dying — but of leaving you.”
Taiga felt wetness soak through his shirt. He blinked hard, fighting his own tears. “You’re not leaving me. You’ll always be here.”
“No, I won’t,” Hokuto sobbed. “I won’t see you fall in love again. Or write another song. Or smile at some dumb puns. I’ll just be… a photo. A ghost in your room.”
Taiga shook his head. “You’re more than that. You’re everything. You always have been.”
“But that’s not enough,” Hokuto said. “I wanted forever.”
Taiga didn’t answer.
Because he wanted forever, too.
They lay there as the storm screamed outside, the candle flickering lower and lower. Hokuto clung to him like the only thing keeping him anchored.
And Taiga whispered every word he’d been holding back.
“I’ll keep your toothbrush where it is. I’ll wear your stupid hoodie every winter. I’ll talk to you when it rains, because I’ll know you’re listening. And every year, when the sea starts to smell like salt and lavender again… I’ll come back here.”
He kissed the top of Hokuto’s head.
“I won’t let the world forget you. I won’t let me forget you.”
Hokuto didn’t reply.
But he didn’t let go either.
Outside, the rain poured harder.
Inside, two boys lay tangled in grief and love.
One dying.
One already starting to mourn.
And both holding on to a summer that was slipping through their fingers like sand.
It was the kind of afternoon where everything felt too still.
The storm had passed, but the sky remained gray — a soft, muted blanket above the sea. The waves were calm. The air was heavy with humidity and unsaid things.
Hokuto had been quiet all day.
He stayed curled up on the couch, wrapped in his favorite blanket, sipping warm tea that Taiga kept reheating for him. His hands trembled more now. He barely finished his breakfast. His color was off — skin pale, lips dry, eyes a little too glassy.
Taiga knew what it meant.
The end was near.
He sat beside him in silence, flipping through the notebook Hokuto had given him. Every page was a piece of his heart. Every word hurt.
And then, without warning, Hokuto shifted.
“Do you bring your guitar?” he asked softly.
Taiga blinked. “It’s in the bedroom. Why?”
“I want to sing something.”
Taiga hesitated. “Are you sure? You should rest.”
“I’ve rested enough,” Hokuto said, with a small smile. “Just… one song. For you.”
Taiga stood, slowly, like moving too fast might break the moment.
When he returned, Hokuto was already sitting straighter. He looked exhausted. But his eyes — his eyes were steady.
“What song?” Taiga asked, kneeling beside him.
Hokuto looked at him and said, quietly, “The one we wrote but never released.”
Taiga stilled. “ Natsu no Owari ?”
Hokuto nodded. “Yeah. That one.”
Taiga took a breath and started playing.
The melody filled the room gently.
Familiar. Fragile. Warm.
Like home.
And then Hokuto began to sing.
His voice was weaker than Taiga remembered. Softer. A little shaky. But every word landed like a knife in Taiga’s chest.
“If the summer ends before I can say goodbye,
Will you remember me in the sound of the waves?”
Taiga kept playing, biting his lip hard to keep the tears back.
Hokuto’s voice cracked slightly on the next line.
“If the stars forget my name,
Promise me… you won’t.”
Hokuto paused. Took a shaky breath. Closed his eyes.
Then finished with a whisper.
“Even if I disappear… I’ll find you again.”
The last note lingered in the air.
Then silence.
Hokuto’s shoulders shook once, and Taiga moved instantly, pulling him into his arms, guitar abandoned on the floor.
Neither of them said anything.
There was nothing left to say.
Taiga just held him. Tighter than before. Closer than ever.
And somewhere deep inside him, something shattered.
Because he knew:
That was the last time he’d ever hear Hokuto sing.
The sun came out again the next day.
It was softer now — golden but gentler, like it knew the world had changed. The sea sparkled with quiet innocence, and the cicadas sang low in the trees, as if whispering instead of shouting.
Taiga helped Hokuto down the hill slowly, arm around his waist.
“I can walk, you know,” Hokuto grumbled, half-smiling.
“You’re swaying like seaweed,” Taiga replied. “Let me be annoying.”
They both laughed — light, broken pieces of what they used to be. But it was okay. It was enough.
They reached the beach just as the tide began to pull back.
Hokuto carried something small — a folded envelope sealed with tape. He didn’t say what was in it. Taiga didn’t ask.
He already knew.
“Here,” Hokuto said, pointing to a spot near a large driftwood log. “This is good.”
Taiga crouched down and began digging.
The sand was warm between his fingers. He carved out a small hole, just deep enough. Hokuto knelt beside him, slower than usual, body trembling slightly.
They placed the letter inside together.
No fanfare. No drama. Just two hands letting go of something sacred.
Taiga covered it gently, patting the sand down like it was something precious.
“Someone’s going to dig this up one day and be very confused,” he said, trying to smile.
“Maybe that’s the point,” Hokuto replied. “Maybe someone else will read it… and understand.”
Taiga looked at him. “Or maybe… you’ll be the one to dig it up.”
Hokuto blinked. “In another life?”
Taiga nodded. “Yeah. Maybe we come back. Maybe we’re strangers again. But one day, we’ll walk this beach, and your feet will stop here.”
Hokuto smiled, small and warm. “And I’ll feel it.”
“You’ll dig,” Taiga said, voice trembling, “and find a letter with your name.”
They sat there, side by side, watching the waves crawl up the shore and pull back again like breath. The wind tousled Hokuto’s hair. He closed his eyes.
“I’m not scared anymore,” he said softly.
Taiga looked down. “Why not?”
“Because even if I go,” Hokuto said, “you’ll still be here. That means… part of me will be, too.”
Taiga swallowed thickly.
“I’ll come back every year,” he whispered. “I’ll find this spot, and sit here. I’ll talk to you like you’re still beside me.”
Hokuto reached out, lacing their fingers together.
“Then promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“When I’m gone…”
He paused, voice breaking.
“…live for me. Even when it hurts.”
Taiga nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.
They stayed until the sky turned pink.
And as the sun began to fall behind the horizon, they walked back up the hill slowly, leaving behind the letter buried in sand — a memory for another lifetime, a promise to find each other again.
( Flashback — When Taiga Found Out )
It was a Tuesday. Cold, gray, ordinary.
Taiga was in the studio, halfway through recording harmonies for someone else’s track. Hokuto had left earlier, saying he had an “errand” and would meet him later for dinner.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
The room was quiet except for the low playback loop repeating in his headphones. Taiga was scrolling through his messages out of habit when he saw the missed call from Hokuto’s phone on the table across from him. That stupid Hokuto left his things again. One new message in.
He didn’t recognize the number.
But the message come in and preview read:
“This is Dr. Kirihara, calling regarding Hokuto Matsumura’s recent MRI results…”
His fingers froze.
Blood roared in his ears.
He tapped the message. A voice message. It began to play.
“Hello, this is Dr. Kirihara from Shinjuku General. I just wanted to follow up on Mr. Matsumura’s test results from last week. Unfortunately, the latest scan confirms our initial diagnosis. The tumor has spread. We will need to discuss further options, but based on its progression—”
The voice cut off.
The silence that followed was louder than anything.
Taiga sat there, the track still looping in the background, someone else’s voice harmonizing over and over, and he—
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t breathe.
He replayed the message three times.
Each time, his hands shook more.
By the fourth time, his vision blurred.
He left the studio without saying a word, hoodie over his head, heart racing, the cold air slapping against his face like punishment.
He walked for hours.
Nowhere in particular.
Just away.
That night, Hokuto returned like nothing was wrong.
He grinned as he took off his shoes, threw his bag onto the couch, and said, “You wouldn’t believe how long the line at the bakery was. But I got your favorite.”
He held out a little paper bag.
Taiga looked at it.
Looked at Hokuto.
And nearly crumbled.
But he didn’t say anything.
He took the bag. Smiled.
“Thanks,” he said. “You’re annoying for knowing exactly what I like.”
“Isn’t that why you keep me around?” Hokuto teased, flopping down beside him.
Taiga laughed.
And cried later in the shower.
Over the next few weeks, he watched more carefully. Every wince, every stumble, every time Hokuto pressed a hand to his side when he thought no one was looking. Every excuse to skip meals. Every fake smile.
Taiga never let on.
He waited.
Waited for Hokuto to tell him.
And when he didn’t —
Taiga booked the house by the sea.
He didn’t want to beg Hokuto to fight. He didn’t want to force hospitals or treatments or second opinions. He just wanted to give him peace.
To give them a goodbye that didn’t feel like one.
He packed everything quietly. Pretended it was a normal break. Let Hokuto keep the illusion that he was in control.
Because Taiga loved him enough to let him believe it.
Even if it broke him every single day.
It happened on a Tuesday.
The same day Taiga first found out.
Maybe that meant something. Maybe it didn’t.
The sky was soft that morning — all pale blue and white streaks. The wind was still. The cicadas quieter than usual. The sea shimmered gently in the distance, like it was holding its breath, too.
Taiga woke up first.
He lay there for a few moments, watching the slow rise and fall of Hokuto’s chest. His skin looked almost translucent now. His lashes rested lightly on his cheeks. One hand clutched Taiga’s hoodie to his chest, as if anchoring himself to it.
Taiga didn’t move.
He just stared. Let the moment stretch.
Then—
“…Taiga?”
The voice was small. Barely there.
Taiga leaned closer. “I’m here.”
Hokuto smiled. It was weak. But real.
“Did you… sleep?” he asked.
“A little,” Taiga lied.
Hokuto reached for him. Taiga caught his hand easily. His fingers were cold. Slower than yesterday.
“Can we… go outside?” Hokuto whispered.
“Yeah,” Taiga said. “Yeah, of course.”
It took twenty minutes to get him out of bed. Another ten to get him into the wheelchair. Hokuto didn’t protest this time. He just held Taiga’s hand tightly the whole way.
They reached the porch, overlooking the sea.
Taiga pulled a blanket over Hokuto’s legs, wrapped his arms around him from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder.
“It’s pretty,” Hokuto said. “Like the first day.”
“It’s still our day,” Taiga whispered.
They sat like that, not saying much. The waves rolled in. Rolled out.
At one point, Hokuto shifted slightly, resting his head against Taiga’s.
“I had a dream,” he murmured. “You were old. Gray hair. Still annoying.”
Taiga laughed quietly, eyes stinging.
“Were you in it?”
Hokuto didn’t answer for a second.
“No. But I was the wind.”
“…the wind?”
“You were on this porch,” Hokuto said softly. “You looked sad. Then the wind picked up and knocked your coffee off the table.”
Taiga smiled. “Sounds like something you’d do.”
“Exactly.” Hokuto’s voice was fading. “So you’d know… I was still around.”
Taiga closed his eyes. It’s hurt. Really.
“Promise me something,” Hokuto said.
“Anything.” Taiga said as if he sure can make it. But he wonders.
“When it happens… don’t call anyone. Just stay here. Just you and me.”
Taiga’s arms tightened. “Okay.”
Silence. The silence that feels like suffocation.
“Thank you,” Hokuto whispered. “For making the end feel like the beginning.”
Taiga wanted to speak. He wanted to say, I love you, again and again until the sky cracked.
But he didn’t get the chance.
Because the next breathe,
never came.
During it happened,
He didn’t cry right away.
He sat there, arms still wrapped around the boy he loved, feeling the warmth fade slowly, like the last glow of summer leaving the sky.
The waves kept crashing.
The sea kept breathing.
And Taiga held him, long after the sun rose higher, whispering the words he never got to say in time.
“I love you, Hokuto.”
“I love you.”
“I really love you.”
Again.
And again.
And again.
( One year later )
The house was quieter now. The house that finally Taiga owned.
No more laughter echoing off the kitchen walls. No extra toothbrush by the sink. No hoodies left hanging on the back of chairs. Just sunlight, sea breeze…
and silence.
Taiga stood barefoot on the porch, looking out over the waves.
Same view.
Different weight.
His hair was longer now, tucked under a cap. He’d grown thinner — a little sharper around the edges. But his eyes were softer. Steadier. As if carrying grief had taught them how to see beauty again.
He held something in his hands.
A small spade.
And Hokuto’s notebook.
The pages were worn now. Smudged with tears, fingerprints, sea spray. He had read them all. Again and again. Each line a lifeline, each sentence a ghost that kissed his cheek and vanished.
Today was the anniversary.
And Taiga had come to dig up a promise.
He walked down the hill, feet dragging through the tall grass that had grown a little wilder. The cicadas were singing again, just like that first day.
He reached the log.
Kneeling in the sand, he took a breath — and began to dig.
It didn’t take long.
The envelope was still there, wrapped in plastic, still intact.
Hands trembling, he pulled it free.
There was no name on the outside. No message.
Just the weight of memory in a sealed paper tomb.
Taiga sat cross-legged, the sea whispering behind him, and opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
And on it:
“If you’re reading this… I guess I kept my promise.
I said I would leave a part of me behind, and this is it.
This beach. This letter. This summer. It’s all yours now.”
Taiga’s breath caught.
He kept reading.
“Do you remember when you first said you loved me?
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t a confession.
It was the way you looked at me when I was laughing with food on my teeth and said,
‘God, I’m doomed.’
That was enough.”
“I was scared, Taiga. So scared.
But you made the ending feel like a slow dance.
Like something I didn’t have to be ashamed of.
Thank you.”
“You don’t have to move on.
Just move forward.
One step at a time.”
“When the wind hits your neck — that’s me.
When you hear a bad pun in your head and laugh?
That’s me too.
And when you write again — write like I’m still in the room.”
At the bottom, one last line:
“I’ll see you in the next summer.
Or the next life.
Whichever comes first.
I love you and I hope I remember.”
Taiga folded the letter slowly.
Held it to his chest.
And for the first time in months,
he smiled.
That night, he sat on the porch again.
The wind danced through the trees. The sea glowed under moonlight. The candle he lit flickered softly on the table beside him.
Taiga raised his glass of warm tea.
“To you,” he said.
“To every stupid pun, every out-of-tune karaoke, every morning you stole my blanket.”
He paused.
“To the boy who made dying look like art.”
The wind stirred gently.
And if he listened closely,
he could almost hear a voice reply:
“You still owe me a duet, you know.”
Taiga laughed.
And the sea kept breathing.
Soft.
Endless.
Full of love.
End.