The One Summer I Loved You

The town only had one gas station, one train platform, and a row of shops that hadn’t changed their signs in decades. 

Most people outside the prefecture didn’t even know it existed. The population was small enough that everyone recognized everyone — from children chasing stray cats through the alleys to the old men who smoked on the same benches every afternoon, watching the sea like it still owed them answers.

It wasn’t abandoned. Just slow. Just stubborn. 

A place that refused to bend with time, even as the rest of the world blurred forward. The smell of grilled fish drifted from open kitchen windows. Cicadas shrieked like clockwork in the trees. The evenings always came too early, the streets dimming long before anyone was ready, as if even the sun was tired of lingering here.

Taiga had grown up here.

Then, for a while, he left — chasing something he couldn’t quite name.

The city was supposed to fix him, or at least make him feel like he was moving forward. But nothing stays perfect forever. In the end, he found himself right back where he started.

He hated it.

Too quiet. Too familiar. Too small for the ache that built in his chest whenever he stared at the horizon and wondered what waited on the other side. Sometimes it felt like the ocean taunted him — endless and wide, while his world stayed narrow and predictable.

Still, he stayed. 

Because people like him always came back.

They inherited their parents’ lives like they inherited the shape of their noses. They worked the cafe shifts passed down to them. They nodded politely at neighbors who had known them since birth. They watched the same sky bleed orange every evening, as if the sun had nothing new left to offer.

His parents still ran the cafe. Taiga had grown up among the clinking of cups, the hiss of steam, the smell of roasted beans that seeped into his skin until it felt permanent. But after returning home, he moved back into the small studio down the road — the one he’d left behind. He’d insisted he needed space of his own. Independence, he called it. Maybe escape, though it was laughable. No one ever really escaped this town. Especially not him.

Tourists came and went, always too loud, always smiling like the sea breeze belonged to them. Taiga smiled back, because that was what people here did, but behind his teeth lived a bitterness he couldn’t explain.

And then — he arrived.

A man with a suitcase in one hand and a notebook in the other. His clothes belonged in a city catalog, not on a street where pavement cracked with weeds. His gaze lingered on the coastline as if searching for something the town could never give him. He walked like each step was counted, and each one weighed more than it should have.

No one else seemed to notice. But Taiga did.

Maybe it was because the man sat at his cliff. The one place Taiga went every evening when the walls of this town felt too tight, where the wind was sharp enough to trick him into believing freedom might exist. It was the only spot that felt wide enough for him to breathe. 

His ritual. His secret. His escape.

But that evening, the stranger was already there — sitting where only Taiga sat. As though he had stolen something Taiga didn’t even realize he was guarding.

The man sat hunched over a notebook, the last of the sunlight tangled in his hair. He scribbled furiously, then stopped, then tore the page out and let the wind snatch it, scattering the pieces into the waves below. The scraps fluttered like broken wings before vanishing into the sea.

Taiga froze. For a moment, he felt the strangest thing — like this stranger had not only stolen his cliff, but his silence too.

A man with city clothes and restless hands, sitting exactly where Taiga sat every evening, as though the town had been waiting all this time for him to arrive.

“That’s my spot,” Taiga said flatly, his voice clipped against the hush of the sea.

The man didn’t even look up. His pen kept moving, scratching the page in steady, deliberate strokes.

“It’s a public cliff,” he murmured, tone calm, almost indifferent.

Taiga blinked, thrown. Most people would’ve stumbled over an apology, shifted awkwardly, maybe left. Not him.

“So you’re one of those city types who thinks silence is optional,” Taiga muttered, scuffing his shoe against a pebble until it skittered into the grass.

This time, the man did look up.

And Taiga’s breath caught. Not because his eyes were sharp or mocking; like he’d expected — but because they weren’t. They were tired. Not the kind of tiredness that came from missing sleep, but the kind that seeped bone-deep, heavy, like he was carrying something invisible and unbearable. Not rude. Just… elsewhere.

“I’m just passing through,” the man said quietly, almost as if reminding himself. “A summer getaway. Rented a small room here.” His gaze flicked back to the horizon. “I’ll be gone before the summer ends.”

“Good,” Taiga muttered. But the word fell flat, not as sharp as he wanted. Something in his chest stung, though he couldn’t name it. He sat down anyway, ten feet away, arms crossed like a barricade.

Silence stretched. The kind of silence that usually comforted Taiga up here. 

But now it felt unsettled, charged. 

The waves crashed against the rocks below. A gull shrieked overhead. The horizon bled orange as the sun lowered, wide and endless, and for the first time Taiga wasn’t sure if quiet meant peace… or suffocation.

They didn’t speak again that evening.

But Taiga found himself glancing sideways anyway — at the way the man gripped his pen too tight, as though words were knives; at the way his shoulders hunched, curling inward like he was trying to vanish into himself.

When the man finally stood to leave, his notebook clutched under his arm, Taiga noticed something fluttering in the grass where he’d been sitting. A scrap of paper, ripped jagged along the edge.

Taiga bent to pick it up.

Five words, uneven, scrawled in a rush:

“I’m scared of being remembered.”

The wind tugged at the page, but Taiga’s fist closed around it. He stood there long after the man had disappeared down the path, the sea breeze tugging at his hair, the note trembling in his hand.

And though he couldn’t explain why, he didn’t let it go.

That night, Taiga lay awake with the scrap of paper hidden under his pillow.

I’m scared of being remembered.

The words looped in his head, louder than the waves outside his window. He told himself he didn’t care. Told himself it wasn’t his problem. Told himself that by morning, he’d forget.

But he didn’t.

By the time the sun bled gold across the horizon again, the words were still there — like salt in his lungs, like a question that wouldn’t dissolve.

The next evening, the man was there again.

Same spot. Same notebook. Same hunched shoulders, outlined against the setting sun.

Taiga narrowed his eyes, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “You’re not very good at passing through quietly.”

The man smirked faintly without looking up. “You’re not very good at minding your business.”

Taiga almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched before he pressed it flat again, locking the warmth away before it could slip out.

He didn’t know the man’s name. Didn’t ask. Didn’t want to admit he wanted to know.

And yet — by the third day, something in him shifted. Without deciding, without even realizing it, he started bringing two canned coffees instead of one.

One for him.

One for the man who didn’t belong here.

He placed the can wordlessly between them on the rock, the metal clinking softly against stone.

The man glanced at it, then at Taiga, but said nothing. Just cracked it open, took a slow sip, and turned back to his notebook.

For some reason, the silence felt different that evening. Not empty. Not unbearable.

Almost like it belonged to both of them.

By the time the horizon swallowed the sun, neither of them had spoken again. Only the sound of waves filled the space between them, steady and endless, as if the sea itself had decided to keep their silence.

Taiga sipped the last of his coffee, the bitterness sharp on his tongue. He told himself it didn’t matter. That tomorrow, the man would be gone. That strangers passed through all the time.

But when he stood to leave, the scrap of paper burned in his pocket like a secret he shouldn’t be carrying.

I’m scared of being remembered.

Taiga glanced once over his shoulder. The man was still there, pen moving slowly now, his face hidden in the dimming light.

A man with city clothes and restless hands.

A man who had taken his cliff, his silence, his thoughts.

The man who didn’t belong here.

And yet, Taiga knew — without reason, without wanting to — that he would come back tomorrow.

The fourth evening, Taiga arrived later than usual.

All day, he had debated not going at all — told himself it didn’t matter. The cliff was just a rock. The view was just a sky. Neither belonged to him officially, and certainly neither depended on whether some stranger happened to be sitting there. He almost convinced himself to stay home, to wash dishes at the cafe and watch the sunset through the kitchen window like everyone else in town.

But when his feet betrayed him and carried him up the hill anyway — kicking at the dirt path with more force than necessary — he felt something tighten in his chest.

Relief.

And immediate irritation at the fact that he was relieved.

Because of course, the man was there.

He sat in the exact spot where Taiga had first seen him: same worn notebook balanced on his knees, same type of city-style shirt fluttering in the breeze, same posture that looked like he could dissolve into the sea air at any moment. His hair lifted with the wind, but his gaze was heavy, fixed somewhere far away. Not on the horizon. Not the town. Somewhere Taiga couldn’t reach.

Taiga cleared his throat louder than necessary. “You’re in my spot. Again.”

The man’s pen stilled. Slowly, he glanced up. His eyes flickered faintly with amusement. “Funny. I don’t see your name on the rock.”

Taiga dropped onto the stone a few feet away with a scowl, arms crossed. “Don’t need to. Everyone knows it’s mine.”

A soft, humorless laugh slipped from the man’s lips. “Everyone? Or just you?”

The words hooked deeper than Taiga expected, pulling something taut in his chest. He bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to rise to it. Still, when he risked a sideways glance, he realized the man wasn’t smirking, wasn’t mocking. His expression was far away, wistful — as if he’d spoken something he hadn’t meant to say aloud. As if the words carried a weight Taiga didn’t understand.

The silence between them stretched. Long enough for the gulls to cry overhead. Long enough for the waves to beat their endless rhythm below.

Long enough for Taiga to notice it.

The faint tremor in the man’s hand as he lifted his pen. The subtle wince when he shifted his body.

Taiga looked away sharply, pretending he hadn’t seen. Pretending he didn’t care.

But for the first time, the silence didn’t feel entirely like his.

It felt borrowed. Shared.

And Taiga hated that it mattered.

After a while, the silence broke.

The man turned, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You came later than usual. I thought you weren’t coming.”

That shut Taiga up. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. His pulse stuttered. So he noticed? He waited?

“Not that I noticed,” the man added quickly, dropping his gaze back to his notebook and scribbling like the words didn’t matter.

Taiga rolled his eyes, though his chest still felt strangely tight. He set down the two canned coffees he’d been holding all this time. The metal clinked softly against the stone.

The man stilled, blinking at the offering before picking one up. He held it carefully, almost reverently, as though it might vanish if he gripped too hard. “Thanks,” he murmured.

It was a simple word, but something about the way he said it — like it was unfamiliar, like it had weight — lodged itself under Taiga’s skin. Nobody had ever said thank you to him for something so small. Not like that.

Pretending it meant nothing, Taiga scooted over. Not ten feet away like before. Just… close enough that they couldn’t pretend they weren’t sitting together on purpose.

They watched the waves in silence. Seagulls wheeled above, their cries carried sharp on the salt air. The tide hummed below, steady and endless.

Taiga stole a glance. The man’s fingers trembled faintly around the can. His lips curved in a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You sick or something?” Taiga blurted, sharper than he meant to. He told himself he didn’t care — but stubbornness had never let him leave well enough alone.

The man blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

“Your hands shake. You breathe weird. You zone out like you’re fighting ghosts.”

Silence stretched. The man hesitated, gaze flicking between Taiga and the horizon as if weighing his answer.

“Maybe I am,” he said finally.

“Fighting ghosts?” Taiga pressed, too quickly.

The man’s mouth twitched. “Sick.” His voice settled there, low and final.

Taiga turned back toward the ocean, his jaw tight. Inside, though, his thoughts spun in uneasy circles. What kind of sickness? Then why came here? Why right now?

“You don’t look like it,” he muttered.

“That’s the point,” the man said softly. “Isn’t it always?”

The words sank like stones between them.

They didn’t speak again for a long time. The sun slipped lower, painting the sea in liquid gold, stretching their shadows long across the cliff. Taiga leaned back on his palms, pretending the silence didn’t bother him, even as his ears tuned to every soft rustle of notebook paper beside him.

The stranger wrote. Taiga listened. And somehow, without meaning to, they shared the quiet together.

The sunset had nearly burned itself out, the horizon slipping from gold into bruised purple. The air shifted—heavier now, quieter in that way that came just before nightfall. Taiga thought about standing, brushing the sand off his jeans, walking away before the silence thickened too much. Maybe if he left, the man would too. Maybe that would be easier.

But then,

“Matsumura,” the man said. His voice was so soft it almost drowned in the waves.

Taiga frowned, turning his head. “What?”

The man didn’t look at him, eyes still fixed on the horizon as if it might swallow him whole. “My name,” he clarified. “Matsumura Hokuto.”

He didn’t ask for Taiga’s. Didn’t even glance at him. Just left the words there, like an offering.

For a moment, Taiga’s throat closed up, his tongue heavy with words he didn’t know how to shape. Names had weight. Names meant permanence. Names meant you couldn’t pretend someone was just a stranger anymore.

Finally, he swallowed hard. “Kyomoto,” he said. His own voice sounded rough, like it wasn’t used to being vulnerable. “Taiga.”

The air between them shifted. Subtle, but undeniable. As if the syllables had carved out a space where something fragile now lived, something that couldn’t be unnamed.

Neither of them spoke again. The tide kept breathing against the rocks, steady and endless.

When Hokuto stood, it was with the same hesitance that laced his every movement. His footsteps faded slowly down the dirt path, each one reluctant, until the sound of them vanished into the hum of cicadas and wind.

Taiga stayed.

He sat a while longer, staring at the ocean as though it could explain why his chest felt so unsteady. He told himself it was only the sea that held him there, only the waves and the cliff and the ritual he’d always had.

But the space beside him — where Hokuto had been — still felt inexplicably warm, even as the night breeze bit colder against his skin.

The bell above the cafe door chimed, cutting through the lazy hum of the afternoon.

Taiga glanced up from the counter, towel slung over his shoulder, and saw him again.

Matsumura Hokuto

The name burned at the back of his mind, as if just thinking it left a mark.

Taiga didn’t remember telling him he worked here. Not that he believed Hokuto would go out of his way to find him. This town was too small not to cross paths eventually. Still, since Hokuto’s arrival, this was the first time he’d stepped into the cafe.

Maybe he’d finally decided to wander the town instead of haunting Taiga’s cliff.

But why here? 

Questions tangled in Taiga’s head, refusing to untie themselves.

Today, Hokuto wore a loose white shirt; simple, almost careless. Gone was the sharp city edge that had made him look so out of place. Yet even in the softness of white cotton, he didn’t blend into this town. He never could.

And still, he walked the same way he always did: unhurried, like time bent differently for him. Like he had all the time in the world — or none at all. A presence that didn’t announce itself, but refused to be ignored.

Hokuto paused at the counter. His gaze swept over the room, then landed on Taiga — steady, unreadable.

Taiga hated it. Hated the way he couldn’t see past it, couldn’t tell what lingered behind those dark eyes.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“You work here?” Hokuto asked at last. His voice was quiet, careful, like the question didn’t matter; but somehow still did.

Taiga’s grip tightened around the towel in his hand. “What does it look like?”

A faint curve touched Hokuto’s mouth. Not a real smile. Not mocking, not kind. Just faint; like something half-remembered, half-forgotten.

“I’ll take whatever’s cold,” Hokuto said, his gaze drifting between the chalkboard menu and back to Taiga.

“That’s vague. What am I, supposed to read your mind?” Taiga muttered. But Hokuto didn’t move, didn’t hurry. He stood there like he had all the time in the world.

Taiga’s eyes flicked to the line forming behind him. Another customer waited. His irritation snapped.

“Just sit down. I’ll bring it to you later. There are people behind you.”

Hokuto nodded — subtle, almost reluctant, as though leaving the counter was the last thing he wanted. But he turned anyway, walking with that same slow weight, and chose a seat facing the window. Facing the sea. Facing the cliff.

Their cliff.

The thought made Taiga snort under his breath. Since when did it become theirs? That cliff had always been his. He’d lived here his whole life, breathed every inch of this town. Hokuto was just passing through.

The next customer’s voice pulled him back, dragging him out of his thoughts. Taiga shoved Hokuto to the edge of his mind and busied himself with orders. Customers came first. Hokuto could wait.

“Your friend? You two look close,” Juri nudged, reappearing at the counter with an empty tray, fresh from serving tourists their lemon sodas. His grin was too knowing, too sharp.

“He’s not my friend,” Taiga muttered immediately; too quickly.

Juri’s chuckle was soft but pointed. He knew Taiga too well; they’d grown up side by side. He could read Taiga’s reactions like a well-worn book. Still, he didn’t press. Not yet.

“I’ll take care of the customer orders. You handle your ‘friend’— or whatever you want to call him.” Juri smirked, already reaching for glasses.

Taiga clicked his tongue, annoyed, but reached for a glass too. “Stupid Juri,” he grumbled. His hands betrayed him anyway, moving automatically, unthinking.

He told himself it wasn’t special. That it was just another order, just another drink. That he was only making it because there were no other customers at the moment.

“I’m only doing this because I’m done with taking orders,” he said under his breath, defensive. Juri didn’t answer — just laughed softly, the sound low and amused.

Taiga glanced toward the table by the window. Hokuto sat alone, back straight, profile cut against the afternoon light, staring out toward the water like the horizon belonged to him.

Taiga tore his gaze away, heat crawling up his neck. He turned back to the counter, muttering again to himself.

“Something cold, something cold…”

His hand hovered before finally reaching for the espresso machine. In the end, he decided on the usual. Simple. Safe. But even as he poured, he knew; this wasn’t just another drink. Not really.

Juri glanced sideways at Taiga, quiet, thoughtful. Whoever this man was, he had managed something rare: he’d made Taiga flustered. Not that Juri had never seen it before — there’d been that one time back in elementary school, when Taiga had a hopeless crush on a classmate. Taiga had gone out of his way to give that kid “special treatment” and when Juri teased him about it, he’d worn the exact same expression he wore now.

Juri’s eyes drifted toward the man by the window. Hokuto sat detached from the room, gaze fixed on the horizon like nothing around him mattered. Strange — that’s what Juri thought. Strange, and maybe a little dangerous. For Taiga’s sake, he hoped it wasn’t the kind of complication that would linger. With a small shake of his head, he shoved the thought aside as another customer stepped forward with an order.

Meanwhile, Taiga carried the glass across the room. His steps were too sharp, too deliberate, like each one was an attempt to control the tightening in his chest.

He slid the drink onto the table with more force than necessary. “Here. Cold enough for you?”

Hokuto’s fingers brushed his as he accepted it. Just a fleeting touch, but enough for Taiga’s breath to snag. He yanked his hand back immediately, but didn’t move away. He lingered; standing there, too close, like something tethered him to the spot.

Across the counter, Juri caught the scene and sighed inwardly. He couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He only hoped Taiga wasn’t stepping into something he couldn’t step out of.

Hokuto held the glass longer than necessary, his fingertips resting against the condensation before he finally lifted it. He drank slowly, carefully — not like someone trying to quench thirst, but like someone tasting. Like he was making even something ordinary into an act that mattered.

“So it’s just iced coffee,” Hokuto said at last. His voice wasn’t mocking. Just matter-of-fact.

Taiga snorted. “Yeah, because how the hell am I supposed to know what you like? Since we’ve been drinking coffee together, figured it’s safe enough. Just take it.”

The words tumbled out faster than he intended. Too many. Why was he explaining himself? Why was he emphasizing together, as if their half-silent evenings on the cliff meant something?

When he glanced back, Hokuto was already watching him. Their gazes locked, steady and unyielding, like a test neither had agreed to play. Taiga looked away first and immediately hated himself for it.

“Thank you,” Hokuto said softly, breaking the tension. “It’s delicious.”

A faint smile curved his lips. Small, but real.

Taiga scoffed, heat prickling up his neck. “...Welcome,” he muttered under his breath before turning on his heel and stalking back to the counter. Better to bury himself in work, better to move, because staying near Hokuto any longer felt like standing too close to fire. He didn’t know if he wanted to retreat from it…. or lean in.

Hokuto lifted the glass again after Taiga left, the chill of it biting against his trembling fingers. He held it longer than he needed to, letting the condensation bead and trail down his skin. Taiga’s touch still lingered faintly, though the said man had snatched his hand back like it burned. Even now, with Taiga across the room, that fleeting contact clung to Hokuto.

He sipped slowly, truly drinking it this time. The coffee was ordinary — too sweet, maybe; but he swallowed as if it were rare. Because it wasn’t really about the drink. It was about the way Taiga had made it. Different from the canned coffees they’d shared on the cliff. This one was personal. Taiga’s hand, Taiga’s effort. And Hokuto smiled quietly to himself.

From the counter, he could hear the other staff laughing, Taiga’s muttered replies threading between them. Hokuto’s gaze followed them longer than he should have, storing away every movement, every sound, like a thief with no right to what he was stealing.

He told himself he came to this cafe for convenience, because the town was small and choices were limited. But that wasn’t true. He could have gone anywhere. Sat anywhere. He didn’t need this.

And yet, here he was. Still stepping inside, even after spotting Taiga from the street, pretending it was coincidence. Pretending as he didn’t know Taiga worked there. As if their evenings at the cliff weren’t enough.

Because lately, every place without Taiga in it felt unbearably empty.

The moment he saw him, Hokuto wanted to follow. He shouldn’t. He told himself to hold back, to keep distance. But restraint had never been enough. He had been drawn in from that very first conversation on the cliff, and he hadn’t managed to pull away since.

Realizing he’d been staring too long, Hokuto forced himself to look away. Back outside. Back to the glass in his hand. He tapped his fingers against it, disguising the tremor as an idle rhythm, keeping time with the low hum of the cafe music. He had gotten good at that — pretending. Pretending the headache wasn’t building at the base of his skull. Pretending his chest didn’t tighten some nights when he lay awake listening to the sea. Pretending summer wasn’t already slipping through his grasp.

Hokuto hated it. Hated the sickness. Hated the running. Hated how much of his life had been wasted pretending he was fine. He thought maybe coming here, to this nowhere town, he could finally stop. But he’d been wrong.

Because Taiga noticed. Taiga looked. Taiga asked.

And when Taiga called him out, Hokuto had admitted nothing more than “Sick.” A half-truth thrown into the wind, like it meant nothing. As if that were enough to end the matter. Now, with Taiga watching — even when he tried to deny it; pretending felt harder than ever.

His gaze drifted again to the counter. To Taiga’s back, as he worked behind the counter. His small shoulders moved briskly, restlessly, like he carried the weight of belonging even when he fought against it. Hokuto understood more than Taiga would ever say. He always had.

And that terrified him. Because it meant he wasn’t pretending to be alone anymore.

But he couldn’t stop. He kept coming back, again and again. Afternoons at the cafe, evenings at the cliff. At first, he feared Taiga would snap — that this stranger, whose name had barely been exchanged, was intruding on his peace. Hokuto braced himself for it every time: for Taiga to finally tell him off, demanding to know why he kept appearing in front of him.

But the remarks Taiga did make — sharp, dismissive, laced with annoyance — never seemed to push Hokuto away. If anything, they gave him reason to return. Because beneath the irritation, there was no real weight in Taiga’s voice. No true rejection. And that kept Hokuto going.

One day, he stepped up to the counter and, for the first time, didn’t order the iced coffee Taiga always made for him. 

Maybe… it was time for a change.

“Iced matcha latte,” he said.

Taiga blinked, caught off guard. “You bored already?”

“Just make it the way you want.” Hokuto laughed softly, brushing the moment aside, though he lingered at the counter instead of retreating to his usual spot. Today, with no customers waiting behind him, Taiga let him stay. He scoffed but turned to prepare the drink anyway.

He whisked the green powder until it dissolved into a smooth swirl, poured it over milk and ice, then finished with the drizzle of syrup. Do not know if it's too much. He didn’t know why he bothered to get it just right. Hokuto hadn’t told him his preference. He hadn’t asked. But still, he made it as if he knew.

When he slid the drink across the counter, Hokuto’s fingers brushed him again like the first time, light but deliberate, before curling around the glass. He sipped, then exhaled softly, as though the taste unlocked something he had been waiting for.

Sweet. Always sweet, Hokuto thought. Maybe Taiga just liked making things that way. Hokuto didn’t even like sweet drinks all that much, but he still took it. Because it was Taiga’s.

For Taiga, he didn’t ask whether Hokuto liked it. He didn’t care. Or maybe he cared too much and couldn’t bear to hear the answer. So he turned back to wiping down the espresso machine, pretending the sound of that soft exhale hadn’t settled somewhere inside his chest.

Hokuto walked to his usual table, pulled out a notebook, opened it, and held a pen for a long while without writing a word.

From the counter, Taiga caught himself watching. The curve of Hokuto’s wrist as he tapped the pen, the angle of his jaw in the afternoon sun. He told himself to stop. To look away. Hokuto was still the same. Just a man who came here too often.

“Your friend’s here again.”

Taiga nearly jumped at Juri’s voice. The latter had just come in for his shift, tying his apron with lazy fingers.

“How many times do I have to say he’s not my friend?” Taiga scoffed, jabbing Juri in the ribs as if to cover up his flinch.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.” Juri smirked, lowering his voice just enough. “Still waiting for the day you burst.”

As if he hadn’t noticed how Hokuto came every single day. As if he hadn’t seen the way Taiga lingered at the counter longer than he should, or how the smallest exchanges between them carried weight no one dared to name.

But Juri was patient. He’d wait.

With Hokuto showing up every day, Taiga had blended him into the rhythm of his life without even noticing. Like grinding beans, wiping counters, locking up at night — Hokuto became part of the routine.

Until one afternoon, he didn’t come.

The usual seat was empty.

Taiga told himself it didn’t matter. He focused on the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of plates, the chatter of customers. But the emptiness pressed against him like a bruise, tender and impossible to ignore.

That evening, he went to the cliff. Told himself it was just habit, just another way to end the day. But as the sun sank and the wind tugged at his hair, the spot beside him stayed empty. No figure in white, no lazy voice greeting him like always. Only the sea, restless and loud, answering back.

Taiga stayed longer than he meant to. Waiting. Hoping. But Hokuto never came.

When Hokuto finally returned the next day, sunglasses hiding the shadows beneath his eyes, Taiga felt something coil in his chest — a strange knot of relief and irritation all at once.

“Didn’t feel well,” Hokuto said softly. He hadn’t been asked.

Taiga slid an iced matcha latte across the counter without a word. No questions. No comments. Just the drink, made exactly the way he always did. As if to say: you don’t have to explain yourself to me.

Hokuto’s fingers lingered around the glass, pale against the condensation, before he lifted it and walked to his seat. His steps were slower than usual, heavier. Taiga found himself tracking every movement, every shift of Hokuto’s shoulders, until the man finally sat down.

And in that moment, Taiga realized something inside him had shifted too. Something he wasn’t ready to name — but it was there, and it scared him.

That evening, they found themselves back at the cliff again.

It had become routine now, even with that one day missing. Hokuto on one side, Taiga on the other, the sea spread wide before them like an unfinished canvas.

The sun burned low, staining the waves in molten gold. Hokuto sat cross-legged, notebook balanced on his knees, though the pages either stayed in scribbles or stayed in blank. As if the words refused to come. Taiga noticed, but told himself he didn’t care. He never asked.

The silence stretched, until Taiga broke it without thinking. His voice was quiet, curious, almost careless.

“You don’t even like summer, do you?”

The question hung between them, sharp in the warm air.

Hokuto blinked, turning just enough for the light to catch in his hair.

“Too bright,” he murmured. “Too loud. Too… full of expectations.”

Taiga tilted his head. “So why come here? In July?”

Something passed across Hokuto’s face; too heavy to be a smile, too soft to be anything else.

“Because I needed to remember what it felt like to be in a world that’s still alive.”

The words landed hard, lodging in Taiga’s chest. He swallowed against the knot they left behind.

“That’s a depressing answer,” he muttered, forcing a crooked grin. “Especially from someone who orders iced matcha lattes at the beach cafe.”

This time, Hokuto did smile. Small. Fragile. But real. His hand resting on the notebook trembled faintly, a quiet betrayal of the things he tried to hide. By now, he knew the symptoms would keep breaking through, and pretending was becoming harder each day.

They sat without speaking after that. But the silence wasn’t empty — it was thick, steady, strangely safe. Like water pressing against skin without pulling you under.

The waves below crashed and receded. The air cooled. Hokuto rose, brushing sand from his trousers.

“I think I like summer now,” he said suddenly, his voice so low Taiga almost missed it.

Taiga turned, startled. “What changed?”

But Hokuto didn’t answer.

He only walked away, the hem of his white shirt lifting in the wind, fading into twilight.

Taiga stayed behind, staring at the sea until the last streak of gold disappeared.

That night, he dreamed of waves. Of hands reaching through dark water — trembling, desperate; reaching for him.

Juri was walking along the beach when he spotted someone sitting beneath the shade of a lone tree, the sea wind tugging gently at his hair. The face looked familiar — a man he’d seen a few times at the cafe, always sitting by the window with that same quiet air.

Hokuto.

That was the name he’d heard often at the cafe, from Taiga’s quiet exchanges with the man who came by almost every day.

Juri finished typing a message on his phone before slipping it into his pocket and heading over. The man didn’t seem to notice him; his gaze was fixed on the sea, distant and unreadable.

“Hokuto, right?” Juri asked as he came to a stop beside him.

For a moment, there was no response, and Juri wondered if he hadn’t spoken loud enough. But then Hokuto looked up, blinking once against the sunlight.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

Juri shrugged and lowered himself to the sand beside him, unbothered. “Tanaka Juri. You can just call me Juri. I’m Taiga’s friend, the guy from the cafe you always come to.”

Hokuto hesitated for a second before nodding, taking the offered handshake. He didn’t want to seem rude, especially to Taiga’s friend. His grip was cool, light — the kind of handshake that didn’t linger.

“You’re not from here, are you? Met Taiga recently?” Juri continued, half out of curiosity, half out of habit. He wasn’t trying to pry; he just wanted to know what kind of person had managed to slip into Taiga’s quiet world. Maybe it was his way of looking out for his friend — the same way he always had since they were kids.

“Yes,” Hokuto said after a pause. “I’m just spending my summer here. I met Taiga by coincidence… at the cliff.”

“Ah, the cliff,” Juri laughed softly, shaking his head. “Of course. He never lets that place go. Used to go there every day with his camera — taking pictures of every corner like it’d disappear if he didn’t.”

Hokuto stayed silent, gaze drifting toward the ocean again.

So Taiga did photography, he thought. 

The fact nestled somewhere deep in him, quietly, like a secret he wasn’t supposed to find yet.

Hokuto’s gaze lingered on the ocean before he spoke again, voice low and almost lost beneath the wind.

“Taiga… does photography?”

Juri chuckled, drawing lines idly in the sand with his finger. “Used to. Back in university, he wouldn’t go anywhere without his camera. He said everything looked different through a lens — like he could finally breathe when he was behind it.”

“Used to?” Hokuto echoed, eyes shifting toward him.

“Yeah,” Juri sighed. “He stopped after working in the city, after graduation. Then he came back to town and started working at his parents’ cafe. Said maybe his passion for photography had died. Said there was no point in doing it in the city, anymore. He never shared the real reason, and I didn’t want to press him either. But the funny thing?” Juri tilted his head toward the horizon. “Every photo hanging in the cafe — the coastline, the train tracks, the festival lights, even that inch of the cliff; they’re all his.”

Hokuto blinked, the pieces falling quietly into place. 

He remembered those photos — how they seemed to catch a softness the town didn’t always show. The way the light hit the cliff at dusk, the way the waves curled like whispers.

He’d thought they were too intimate, too alive, to be stock prints.

Juri leaned back on his hands, watching the horizon. “He says they’re just old decorations. But I think he keeps them up because they remind him the town isn’t all bad. Or maybe... he still loves photography more than he admits.”

Hokuto smiled faintly, a small tightness catching in his chest. “He must have loved this town a lot.”

“Loved?” Juri snorted. “Nah. He says he hates it. Always swears he’s gonna leave. But when he did once, he came back again. Maybe after all… he never really did. Or he never really could.”

Hokuto didn’t reply then. He hadn’t known there was so much behind Taiga’s quietness — not until Juri revealed it. 

And he didn’t expect Taiga to ever be open with him either. They weren’t friends for years. They were just two strangers who happened to meet, and talk.

So why was Juri telling him all this?

“You’re probably wondering why I’m saying all this,”  Juri said after a while, sensing the silence. “It just slipped out. Guess I didn’t stop myself in time. And Taiga would kill me if he knew.” He laughed under his breath, then his tone grew quieter. 

“But… this is the first time I’ve seen Taiga change after coming back, even a little. So I’m not here to warn you to stay away from him or anything. I don’t claim to own his choices. But Taiga’s an important person to me, so I can’t help but be worried.”

Hokuto gulped at that, unsure how to respond.

“Should I be worried or should I not, Hokuto?” Juri asked as he stood, brushing sand from his jeans. “You don’t have to answer. Just… I hope you do the right thing.”

He gave a small nod toward the sea. “I should get going. Taiga’s probably wondering where I am.”

Juri turned to leave and had already taken a few steps when a soft voice made him stop.

“Wait.”

Hokuto was standing now, his voice quieter than the sea breeze but enough to make Juri pause mid-step.

Juri turned slightly, brow raised. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For telling me about him.”

Juri tilted his head. “You don’t have to thank me. I just talk too much sometimes.”

But Hokuto shook his head. “No… I mean it. You made me understand him a little better.” 

He hesitated, lips pressing together before he added, almost under his breath, “Sometimes understanding someone is the only thing you can give them.”

Juri didn’t quite catch the last part, only the way Hokuto’s tone carried something fragile — like a confession meant for no one in particular. He wanted to ask what that meant, but something in Hokuto’s expression stopped him.

“Alright,” Juri said finally, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Guess I’ll see you at the cafe later.”

Hokuto gave a small nod, his eyes shifting back toward the waves. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Juri echoed with a short laugh, shaking his head. “You sound just like Taiga when he’s trying to avoid answering something.”

That earned him the faintest smile from Hokuto — barely there, but real; when their gazes met.

“Can you give this to Taiga later?” Hokuto asked, holding out a folded note.

Juri blinked, a little surprised. He hadn’t even noticed when Hokuto wrote it, but he took it anyway, tucking it carefully into his pocket. 

When Juri finally walked off, the sound of his footsteps faded into the wind. 

Hokuto stayed where he was, the breeze tugging lightly at his hair.

He let out a slow breath. The sunlight was too bright now, the sea too wide.

He thought of Taiga’s quiet eyes, the way he said nothing and yet seemed to understand everything.

And for the first time that summer, Hokuto felt something close to fear — not of dying, but of what would happen if he stayed long enough to be remembered.

The bell above the cafe door chimed softly as another customer left, and the faint scent of roasted beans lingered in the air. The afternoon light had turned golden, spilling across the counter where Taiga leaned with one hand propped under his chin.

Juri was supposed to be back half an hour ago.

He’d said he’d grab lunch by the pier before coming back again, but Taiga had stopped checking the clock after the third glance. The cafe wasn’t too busy anyway; just a few locals nursing their iced coffee, the lazy hum of a fan in the corner blending with the faint sound of waves outside.

He didn’t mind the quiet, not really. But lately, silence carried its own kind of weight.

Every time the door opened, his head lifted — half expecting that familiar slow voice, or maybe Juri’s laugh breaking the stillness. But both were missing.

So when the bell chimed again, he straightened immediately. “You’re late,” he said automatically without looking, his voice carrying more fond annoyance than scolding.

But instead of Juri’s voice, a different one came with a grin.

“Still bossing people around, huh?”

Taiga blinked, the cloth in his hand frozen midair. “Shintaro?”

The taller man stood by the doorway, sunglasses pushed into his messy hair, a travel bag slung across his shoulder. He looked a little older, a little more city-shaped; but the same teasing smile was there.

Taiga’s mouth opened, closed, then curved into a stunned half-smile. “When did you —”

“This morning.” Shintaro crossed the room in a few strides, setting his bag near the counter. “Figured I’d surprise you two before summer ends. Where’s Juri?”

“Late,” Taiga muttered, shaking his head. Then, a softer note crept into his voice. “You really came back.”

Shintaro leaned against the counter, eyes flicking to the framed photographs hanging by the wall. “Couldn’t stay away forever. This town’s too damn slow, but somehow… I missed it.”

Taiga laughed quietly, the sound catching halfway between fondness and disbelief.

“Sit down. I’ll make you a drink,” he said, reaching for a glass.

“Just juice is fine,” Shintaro replied, settling on a stool by the side of the counter. His thumbs moved across his phone for a moment before he put it aside, finally looking up as Taiga poured.

“So you’re back for summer vacation?” Taiga asked, sliding the glass toward him.

“Yeah.” Shintaro nodded, taking a sip before leaning back with a sigh. “Finally got a real break after working like a zombie. Deadlines, travel, assignments — you name it. The city never sleeps, and neither did I.”

Taiga raised a brow. “Still working for that magazine?”

“Mmmm.” Shintaro gave a small grin. “They call it photojournalism. I call it surviving on caffeine and bad lighting.”

Taiga huffed a small laugh. “You always wanted to chase stories. Guess you got what you wanted.”

Shintaro tilted his head, studying him quietly. “Yeah, maybe. But sometimes I think the stories I chase don’t mean anything if I can’t come home to tell them.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The cafe hummed softly around them — the clink of glasses, the hum of the fridge, the sound of waves faintly echoing beyond the open window.

Then Shintaro added, his tone lighter again, “Besides, someone’s gotta remind you how to take real photos again.”

Taiga rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” 

He hated it whenever his friends brought that up — even as a joke. Because every time they did, he had to start running again, dodging the questions he never wanted to answer.

The cafe door chimed again, letting in a rush of sunlight and sea breeze.

“Speak of the devil,” Taiga muttered, glancing up from the counter. 

Juri stepped in, hair a little messy from the wind.

“You’re late,” Taiga said flatly.

“I know,” Juri said, waving it off. “Ran into someone on the beach. Got caught up talking.”

Shintaro raised a brow, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Someone, huh? You sure it wasn’t you just flirting again?”

Juri shot him a look, then blinked as recognition hit. “Wait — Shin?!”

Shintaro grinned and stood, arms wide open. “In the flesh.”

“Holy shit!” Juri crossed the room in three steps and pulled him into a rough hug, laughing against his shoulder. “When did you get back?”

“This morning.”

“You didn’t tell us, man! You just show up like some celebrity comeback tour.”

Shintaro chuckled. “Thought I’d drop by unannounced. Taiga almost spilled the coffee pot.”

“I did not,” Taiga muttered, earning another laugh from both of them.

The sound filled the cafe, warm and familiar, echoing off the quiet walls. For a brief second, it felt like they were kids again — no city, no responsibilities, just long summer days and salt in their hair.

Juri finally released Shintaro, still grinning. “You look good, city boy.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” Shintaro shot back. “I’ve been starving for a visit from you two, especially you, Juri. Thought you’d forgotten me for Taiga already.”

“Liar! It’s only been a month and you’re already jealous,” Juri scoffed, plopping down beside him.

Taiga set another glass on the counter, shaking his head with a faint smile. “You two haven’t changed at all. Still arguing over me. I should just walk out.”

“How can we not?” Shintaro replied softly. “We care about you.”

The moment stretched quietly between them. Outside, a gull cried, and somewhere in the back, the clock ticked toward noon.

“So,” Juri said, breaking the silence, “what are we doing tonight? Beach? Drinks? Or Taiga’s gonna say no like usual?”

Taiga rolled his eyes. “I want to rest.”

“Boring,” Juri groaned.

Shintaro smirked. “Then we’ll just drag him out after closing. For old times’ sake. We have been missing our city hangout.”

“Over my dead body,” Taiga said, but his lips curved, betraying a smile.

Then Juri suddenly remembered the folded paper in his pocket.

“Oh — by the way.” He slid a small note across the counter. “This is for you.”

Taiga frowned but took it anyway.

“Whoa, what’s this? A love letter? Secret message? What have I missed?” Shintaro teased, leaning forward with a grin.

Taiga ignored him and unfolded the paper.

The note read:

Meet me at the beach. Forget the cliff today. Bring something to ruin.

Taiga’s brows furrowed. “You met Hokuto?”

“Yeah. At the beach. And he gave that,” Juri said, stealing a sip of Shintaro’s juice without shame.

“Oi, that’s mine!” Shintaro snatched the glass back, scowling. “Anyway, who’s this Hokuto guy?”

“No one,” Taiga answered quickly.

The words slipped out sharper than he meant, and Shintaro blinked, thrown off. He wanted to ask again, but the door chime saved Taiga — a new customer stepped in, and he gratefully moved away to the counter.

As he took the order, his mind wasn’t really there. The note burned faintly in his pocket, the words looping in his head like a whisper.

Meet me at the beach. Forget the cliff today. Bring something to ruin.

Why not just come himself? Why leave a note? He’d been waiting that whole afternoon — watching the path by the cliff, half expecting to see Hokuto’s figure appear against the sunlight like before.

But no one came. Only the wind, only the sound of waves, only that quiet ache that grew with each hour.

He caught himself sighing as he set a cup on the counter, forcing a small smile when the customer thanked him. Maybe Hokuto had his reasons. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen.

Or maybe… Taiga didn’t want to finish that thought.

Behind him, Shintaro and Juri were still bickering softly, their voices warm and familiar against the steady hum of the cafe. It grounded him — at least for now.

“Okay fine then,” Shintaro said finally, standing. “Tonight’s drinks are on. I’ll take that as a yes, especially from you, Taiga.”

“Fine,” Taiga sighed, lips twitching. “But the drinks are on you.”

“No worries,” Shintaro grinned, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Just be prepared. See you tonight.”

The door chimed again as he left, sunlight spilling across the counter.

Taiga watched it fade, fingers unconsciously brushing the note in his pocket — the paper already warm from his hand.

Taiga glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing the time he usually walked to the cliff for his evening routine — though now, that routine somehow included someone else.

He hesitated by the doorway, keys in hand, eyes drawn to the distant line of the sea glowing faint gold under the fading light.

Meet me at the beach. Forget the cliff today. Bring something to ruin.

He could still hear Hokuto’s voice in his head, though it had only been words on paper. It would be easier not to go. To stay, help Juri close up, pretend the note didn’t exist. But his feet wouldn’t listen.

“Juri,” he called softly.

“Mm?” Juri looked up from wiping the counter.

“I need to run an errand. Can you lock up alone?”

Juri’s gaze lingered a moment — too knowing, too gentle. Then he smiled faintly. “Yeah. Go.”

Taiga nodded, grateful, and slipped out before he could change his mind.

The beach was nearly empty when he arrived. The tide was low, the sand still warm underfoot. He spotted Hokuto immediately — standing ankle-deep in the shallows, pants rolled up, head tilted toward the horizon like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Taiga slowed his steps. Something about him looked different. Maybe it was the way the light hit his face — softer, sadder — or maybe it was the quiet stillness around him, the kind that made Taiga’s chest tighten.

He stopped a few paces away. “So,” he said quietly, “what are we ruining?”

Hokuto turned, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Sandcastles.”

Taiga blinked. “Sandcastles?”

Hokuto nodded toward the shore. Only then did Taiga notice a small, uneven shape in the sand — half-built, half-collapsed, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stand or fall.

“It’s ugly,” Hokuto said, tone perfectly serious. “I need someone to help me destroy it.”

Taiga huffed a laugh. “Therapy sounds cheaper.”

“Sand is more dramatic,” Hokuto replied with a straight face. “So, help me?”

Taiga looked at him for a long moment. The sea breeze carried the faint scent of salt and memory, and something about the way Hokuto stood — bare feet in the water, watching him expectantly — made it impossible to refuse.

The sandcastle wasn’t even that big, but when they started ruining it — kicking it down, sand flying in every direction — it felt absurdly satisfying.

And then Hokuto laughed.

Not polite. Not restrained. A messy, startled sound that broke open like something he’d been holding in too long.

Taiga froze mid-kick. That was the first time he’d ever heard Hokuto laugh like that. Before, there had only been small smiles — polite, practiced, or unreadable. But this… this laugh was real.

With the sunset burning behind him, Hokuto’s laughter tangled with the sea breeze, and Taiga swore something in his chest shifted — something he couldn’t name. Or maybe he already knew.

“You never laugh like that,” he said quietly.

Hokuto’s grin faltered, but only for a second. “You don’t smile when you’re working.”

“I work in a cafe. There’s nothing to smile about,” Taiga muttered.

“But sometimes you do,” Hokuto teased lightly. “When I walk in.”

“Shut up. That’s because there are other customers besides you.”

Hokuto only shrugged, pretending to buy it. He kicked at the sand again, this time deliberately near Taiga, who retaliated instantly. Before long, they were both laughing — really laughing — like the only two people on the beach.

When they finally collapsed on the sand, breathless and grinning, Taiga looked up at the deepening sky.

For a moment, Taiga thought: This is dangerous. This is the kind of moment you’ll remember when you shouldn’t.

Right after, they walked along the waterline, shoes in hand. The tide lapped over their ankles — cool, persistent, almost as if it wanted to pull them back with every step.

Their arms brushed once. Twice. Neither moved away.

“Why here?” Taiga asked finally, his voice low. His gaze stayed on the horizon, where the sea met the last line of light. “Why not Okinawa? Or abroad? Why this boring little beach town?”

Hokuto was quiet for so long that Taiga almost thought he wouldn’t answer. The wind filled the silence between them.

“Because no one here knows me,” Hokuto said at last, his tone quiet enough to almost blend into the waves.

Taiga frowned. “What’s so bad about being known?”

Hokuto’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Nothing,” he whispered. Then, after a beat — “Everything.”

The word clung to the air like salt, sharp and heavy.

Hokuto stopped walking, and Taiga stopped too, the sand sinking slightly under their feet. The evening light caught Hokuto’s profile — the curve of his jaw, the tired edge beneath his eyes.

“You know…” Hokuto murmured, almost to himself. “This town makes you soft.”

Taiga blinked. He didn’t understand what that meant — not really — but something about it stung.

“So leave before you start liking it,” he said, trying to sound careless.

“Too late,” Hokuto replied. His voice was so soft that Taiga almost missed it, but he heard — and for a reason he couldn’t explain, it made his chest tighten.

He looked at Hokuto then. The other’s eyes were still on the water, reflecting the last streaks of gold across the sea.

They stood there in silence — two figures framed against the sinking sun. And then Hokuto spoke again, voice quieter than the waves.

“Do you ever feel like the sky’s getting too big for you?”

Taiga froze, caught off guard. The question was strange — heavy in a way that felt too familiar.

His gaze found Hokuto’s again, and for a moment, neither looked away.

“Every day,” Taiga admitted finally. The words slipped out before he could stop them. 

But he didn’t say more. Didn’t explain what that meant.

And Hokuto didn’t ask. He just smiled — small, knowing, almost sad — and looked back toward the horizon, as if the answer was already enough.

“I’ll head back first,” he murmured after a beat, brushing sand off his hands.

Taiga only nodded.

He watched as Hokuto walked away, the orange light catching in his hair until it disappeared behind the slope. Only then did Taiga realize he’d been holding his breath.

The sky had deepened by the time he finally moved. He stayed a moment longer, watching the waves erase Hokuto’s footprints one by one, before turning back toward the road.

His phone buzzed in his pocket — a message from Juri.

[Juri]: You still coming? Shintaro already ordered the first round.

Taiga stared at the screen for a moment. His thumb hovered before he typed a reply.

[Taiga]: Yeah. On my way.

He pocketed the phone and started walking, sand clinging to his ankles, the salt still heavy in his chest. He didn’t look back.

The bar was dimly lit, tucked behind a row of shuttered shops. Taiga spotted them easily — Juri waving from a booth near the back, Shintaro already halfway through a glass of beer.

“Finally,” Juri said as Taiga slid into the seat. “We thought you ditched us for something better.”

“Shut up,” Taiga muttered, reaching for a glass and taking a long gulp.

“I feel left out here,” Shintaro said, glancing between them. “Care to share what I missed?”

Taiga only shrugged, eyes fixed on the table.

“Fine,” Shintaro said with mock offense. “I’ll just bribe Juri later. He talks when I pay for his food.”

Taiga sighed. “It’s just someone I met, okay? His name’s Hokuto. That’s it.”

“So this Hokuto guy…. what, a friend or —”

“Just a friend,” Taiga cut in before he could finish. “Drop it.”

Shintaro held up both hands in surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off.”

The tension eased a little. For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of music and the clink of glasses.

“Anyway,” Shintaro said after a pause, leaning back. “You two never come to the city anymore. Even Juri stopped visiting. What gives?”

“It’s only been a month,” Juri said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll live.”

“I can’t live without you,” Shintaro teased, leaning closer.

“Stop being lovey-dovey in front of me,” Taiga groaned. “The day you two show up here as a couple, I swear I’ll laugh till I choke. You’re hopeless.”

Juri shoved Shintaro away, face flushed — whether from the drinks or embarrassment, Taiga couldn’t tell. Shintaro just laughed, unbothered.

Then Shintaro’s tone softened. “Hey, Taiga. Seriously though — you really don’t want to go back into photography?”

There was no judgment in his voice; just curiosity, maybe a little disbelief.

Taiga blinked, caught off guard.

“There’s still a spot open in my team,” Shintaro continued. “And some of our seniors were asking if I knew anyone good with a camera.”

Taiga’s fingers stilled around his glass. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Let me think about it.”

“You always said you hated this town,” Juri added gently. “But you came back anyway. Maybe you don’t hate it as much as you think. Maybe this town’s making you soft again.”

He hesitated. “And photography… you still love it, don’t you? If something’s holding you back, you can tell us.”

Taiga stared into his drink. The reflection of the overhead light rippled across the surface — distorted, like something struggling to stay afloat.

“I know,” he said finally, voice low. “It’s just…”

He exhaled. “Let me find my passion again first.”

The words lingered between them, quiet but heavy. Juri nodded slowly. Shintaro didn’t push further. They’d known Taiga long enough to understand — the more they pressed, the more he’d pull away. Tonight wasn’t about convincing him. It was about reminding him he wasn’t alone.

“Thank you,” Taiga murmured after a while. “I know you guys can’t help but worry, but I’m okay. Just… give me time, alright?”

“No worries,” Juri said softly. “Whatever makes you happy, we’re with you. Always.”

“Yeah,” Shintaro added, raising his glass. “You know where to find us when you’re ready. But for now—let’s just enjoy tonight.”

Taiga smiled, small but sincere. The three glasses clinked together, the sound bright and fleeting against the low murmur of the bar.

For a moment, Taiga let himself breathe — really breathe. He was grateful, deeply, for these two constants in his life. For their patience, for staying when he couldn’t stay with himself.

He wanted to go back to who he was — or maybe, just learn to be okay again. Even if it took time.

“Anyway,” Shintaro said, breaking the quiet with a grin, “I heard there’s a small beach festival coming up. We should go.”

“You really are milking your vacation,” Juri snorted. “Haven’t you had enough sea breeze?”

“Never,” Shintaro said, smirking.

Taiga chuckled, shaking his head. The tension from earlier had lifted, replaced by something lighter — fragile but real.

And for the first time in a long while, it felt like maybe — just maybe — things could start again.

That night, after walking home beneath the chorus of crickets and the hush of the sea wind, Taiga opened his notebook.

He hadn’t touched it in months — maybe longer.

He used to write too. Thoughts, dreams, fragments of a life he once believed he’d capture through a lens.

But he’d stopped when he came back here. Writing always felt pointless in this still, quiet town.

He stared at the blank page, his mind drifting back to Hokuto’s words. To Juri’s voice. To the silence that lingered between everything.

His grip on the pen tightened, and he began to write.

One line.

If I’m soft now, it’s only because you made me that way.

The night wind slipped through the open window, carrying the sound of waves breaking against the shore.

He stared at the words for a long time — unsure whether he was writing to the town, to the sea, or to someone who had just passed through this summer.

But for the first time in a long while, it felt like breathing again.

Taiga didn’t feel the urge to run.

There was a time Taiga couldn’t go a day without holding a camera.

The world had felt alive through the lens — the light catching on glass, the laughter between strangers, the quiet stillness that others never noticed. 

Everything was worth capturing, because everything meant something.

Until one day, it didn’t.

The city swallowed him whole.

Deadlines. Clients. Expectations. 

Everyone wanted perfect frames, not feelings — and somewhere between editing and pleasing, Taiga forgot why he ever started.

He began sleeping less. Eating less. Smiling less.

The colors around him dulled. The sounds blurred into static.

And one morning, he woke up and couldn’t lift his camera.

It wasn’t broken.

He was.

He told himself it was exhaustion, that a few days of rest would fix everything. But even when he stopped working, the silence became unbearable. Every time he tried to pick up the camera again, it felt heavy — like holding a memory that no longer wanted him back.

So he went to see a doctor, desperate for an answer. Maybe it was an illness. Maybe that would make sense.

After a long pause and an even longer stare at the results, the doctor said quietly, “There’s nothing wrong with your body.”

Taiga frowned. “Then why does it feel like —”

The words caught halfway up his throat.

“Maybe burnout,” the doctor continued. “Based on the symptoms you told us. Or something we call anhedonia. It’s when things you used to love stop bringing you joy. Like… the light’s still on, but you can’t feel its warmth.”

Taiga’s throat tightened. The world around him blurred — too bright, too still.

“It can be treated,” the doctor said gently. “You’re not broken. You just need time… and help — to find yourself again. We can suggest —”

But suddenly, the doctor’s voice felt distant.

All Taiga heard was the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the sound of his heartbeat pounding in the silence.

He left the clinic that day with the same weight in his chest.

A week later, with the doctor’s suggestion — and their persistent follow-up — he found himself sitting in another room: smaller, quieter.

No white coats. Just a soft chair, a desk, and a woman with kind eyes.

She didn’t ask for his medical reports. She simply asked, “When did you stop taking pictures?”

Taiga stared at his hands. “When they stopped meaning anything.”

“Do you want to find that meaning again?” she asked.

He thought for a long moment before whispering, “I don’t know.”

The psychiatrist didn’t answer immediately. She just nodded, as if to say, That’s okay. Sometimes, not knowing was part of healing.

But Taiga didn’t understand that yet.

All he knew was that the city air felt too heavy, and the walls too close.

So even after the psychiatrist offered a treatment plan, he packed a bag — and left.

He told himself he just needed to breathe again. To heal.

Maybe back in his hometown — back to his parents, back to where his passion first began — he could find a way to feel like himself again.

It was hard at first.

When his parents asked why he’d suddenly come home, Taiga only shrugged and said, “I just want to help you guys here. I want to be close to you, Mom… Dad.”

They were the kind of parents who never pushed. They only nodded, smiled softly, and told him to rest as long as he needed.

Even when he insisted on staying alone in the small studio he’d left behind before moving to the city, they didn’t question it. They simply let him be — and for that, Taiga was grateful.

But word in a small town travels fast.

So it wasn’t long before Juri showed up at his door.

At first, all they did was argue.

Juri leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re really planning to rot in here forever?”

Taiga frowned. “I’m not rotting. I just need some time.”

“You’ve been here for five days, Taiga. The only time you stepped out was when your mom dragged you for lunch.”

“Exactly. So let me have my peace.”

“Peace or a pity party?” Juri snorted.

Taiga glared. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it!” Juri snapped, his voice cracking just a little. “You were fine in the city — working, living. Then suddenly you disappear. I thought you were just busy. When I came to visit you and Shintaro, you said you had something to fix at work — always one excuse after another. And now you’re back here, acting like a ghost, and you expect me to just watch you fade out like this?”

The silence that followed hit harder than either of them expected.

Taiga’s shoulders lowered. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said quietly.

Juri exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well… you did.”

His tone softened, but only for a moment. “Whatever fits you,” he muttered before leaving.

They didn’t talk much after that — not until a few days later, when Taiga texted Juri first.

[Taiga]: I’m sorry. Dinner? My treat.

Over bowls of steaming ramen, things started to fall back into place. The tension melted into small jokes, quiet laughter. And for the first time since coming home, Taiga didn’t feel like he was drowning in silence.

He then told Juri he’d decided to help out at his parents’ cafe.

“That’s good,” Juri said, grinning. “You’ll actually see sunlight again.”

Taiga rolled his eyes. “Funny.”

“Hey, I’m serious! I’ll come help too,” Juri added.

“What? No. You’ve got your family business to run.”

Juri only shrugged. “There’s enough people handling that. Besides…” His grin softened. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t burn yourself out making coffee.”

Taiga sighed but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. He knew Juri’s insistence came from care — that Juri just wanted to keep him close, to remind him he still had people who’d never left.

And deep down, Taiga was grateful.

Because no matter how much he’d changed, Juri still treated him like the same Taiga — the one who once laughed too loud, chased sunsets, and believed every picture had meaning.

The cafe days slipped into routine.

Taiga didn’t count how long he’d been back in town — he simply blended into it.

It was simple, almost peaceful — the kind of life that didn’t demand much, but also didn’t give much back either.

Sometimes, when the late afternoon light spilled across the counter and everything turned gold, Taiga thought about what used to move him.

How once, he’d chase moments — laughter, rain, sunsets, stories that belonged to strangers — as if collecting proof that life meant something. 

How it felt to have passion running through him, the spark of excitement that once made him feel alive.

Now, he just watched those moments pass by.

He didn’t feel anything anymore.

And somewhere along the way, Taiga had learned something about love too — whether it was for people or for art.

When you give too much of yourself, it takes pieces you can’t get back.

Maybe that was why he stopped taking photos.

Why he stopped writing.

Why his passion had gone quiet.

Why he told himself not to get attached.

Because when he did, everything fell apart.

He told himself again and again not to love things that wouldn’t stay.

Because he’d been there — and he was still struggling to move past it.

He told himself not to love.

Not people who would only come for a season.

Not fleeting summers that promised warmth but always ended too soon.

The thought followed him as he closed the cafe that evening.

The air was cool, the scent of salt and coffee still clinging to his clothes. He walked the familiar path toward the cliff — the one place where the town felt bigger than it was.

The sun dipped toward the horizon, the sky shifting through shades of fire and violet. Waves crashed against the rocks below, steady and endless. Taiga liked it there — the quiet, the wind, the illusion that time didn’t matter.

But that evening, he realized he wasn’t alone.

Someone was already there — sitting in the spot where Taiga always sat.

He had noticed the man before, through the cafe window when he first arrived in town. But Taiga hadn’t paid him much attention — tourists came and went all the time.

He didn’t know then that the stranger would end up at his cliff.

He didn’t know that when they finally spoke, when their gazes met under the fading sky, something would begin — something small, but impossible to shake.

Taiga knew it. He knew that one day, Hokuto would leave — back to the city, back to wherever people like him belonged. Maybe soon. Maybe before Taiga even realized it.

And yet, every time he thought about it, something in his chest ached. And it didn’t stop the ache in his chest from growing.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t sleep that night. Because he knew he was doing it again — giving pieces of himself away, without knowing if they’d ever return.

He used to fall in love with photographs — with moments that never lasted but somehow stayed anyway.

And now, somehow, Hokuto felt the same.

But this time, instead of running away, Taiga wondered if he could make the opposite choice.

And so, day by day, he began to learn more about Hokuto. 

Not much — small things, quiet things — but enough.

Because Taiga understood him. Or maybe it was that they carried the same kind of pain.

Hokuto was scared of being remembered.

Taiga was scared that the things he loved would fall apart.

And somewhere between those fears, in the quiet moments they shared, something gentle began to grow — something neither of them could stop, even if they tried.

Taiga told himself to let it go. To not fall.

But the moment he saw Hokuto laughing — really laughing — at the beach, sunlight spilling over him like gold, Taiga felt something inside him spark.

He wanted to reach for his camera again.

He wanted to capture that moment — the light, the sound, him.

Hokuto.

For the first time in so long, he felt the ache of wanting to capture moments again.

The kind of ache that once made him love photography in the first place.

And in that instant, with Hokuto standing there against the horizon, Taiga realized something he hadn’t felt before — this was what home felt like.

They weren’t supposed to end up at Taiga’s place.

It just… happened.

That evening, as they always did, they sat in silence watching the sun sink into the horizon. When it was time to leave, usually one of them would go first — no words, no reason, just the quiet understanding that the moment was over.

But that day, Hokuto stood and said softly, “Let’s go together.”

So they walked down the cliffside path side by side, Hokuto’s notebook tucked against his hip as always.

The rain came suddenly — a sharp summer downpour that swallowed the last of the orange sky. The first drops fell fast, cold, relentless, soaking through Hokuto’s shirt until it clung to his skin. He shivered before they even reached the corner.

Taiga didn’t think. He just reached out, grabbed Hokuto’s wrist, and muttered, “Come on.”

By the time they reached Taiga’s studio, they were drenched. Rain streaked the windows, thunder hummed softly in the distance. Hokuto’s hair stuck to his forehead, his breath visible in the chill — and for a moment, Taiga thought —

He’s beautiful like this.

Unguarded. Real.

He wanted to say it then — to tell him everything. 

That Hokuto made him want to pick up his camera again. That he made the world feel alive again.

The words hovered at the edge of his tongue. But then Hokuto shivered again, and Taiga’s heart stumbled back to reality.

He turned away quickly, rummaging through the closet. “Go change first. You’ll catch a cold,” he said, thrusting a towel and some clothes into Hokuto’s hands. When Hokuto hesitated, Taiga gave him a gentle push toward the bathroom.

While Hokuto was inside, Taiga busied himself in the kitchen. The sound of rain filled the silence as he opened the cupboard. Something warm. Something easy. 

He found a few instant ramen cups, the ones Juri had brought over last month, saying, “At least have these, so you don’t die alone from laziness.”

Taiga smiled faintly at the memory, filling the kettle.

“I’m done,” Hokuto’s voice came suddenly from behind him.

Taiga turned, startled. Hokuto stood there, towel draped around his neck, wearing Taiga’s clothes — a little fit on him, the sleeves that were too high before his wrists.

“Guess we’re both hungry,” Taiga said, clearing his throat. “I’ll change too.” He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Hokuto alone.

Hokuto’s eyes wandered. They stopped at the counter — where a camera sat, half-hidden under a stack of papers. It looked untouched for a long time, yet still precious.

He stepped closer, fingers hovering over the lens. He wondered if Taiga still wanted to take photos again.

He wondered if he’d ever get to see that look on Taiga’s face — the one people have when they love something deeply.

He brushed his fingertips against the edge of the camera, almost tenderly.

Maybe it’s better if I don’t ask, he thought.

Maybe it’s better if I don’t hope.

Taiga returned a few minutes later, his hair damp from a quick towel-dry, wearing his favourite oversized sweater that hung loosely on him.

He glanced toward Hokuto, who sat near the window, watching the rain outside. Without a word, Taiga grabbed the kettle, poured hot water into the ramen cups, and carefully carried them to the small table by the window.

Hokuto looked up when Taiga set the two cups on the table. “Smells good,” he murmured.

Taiga gave a small smile. “It’s nothing fancy. Just something Juri stocked up. Guess it’s useful on days like this.”

They shared a quiet exchange of smiles. The ramen was ready soon after; Taiga peeled back the lids and pushed one cup toward Hokuto, whose gaze still lingered on the window. When Hokuto finally noticed, he offered a small, soft, “Thanks.”

Taiga smiled back.

Now they sat cross-legged on the floor of Taiga’s tiny studio, hair dripping, steam curling from two cups of instant ramen. The smell of miso and rain mist filled the room. The lights were low; the only sound was the rain against the windows.

They ate in silence. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward.

The kind that felt safe. Too safe. Too comfortable. 

“I always thought people like you hated small towns,” Taiga said finally, voice soft, as if afraid the walls might overhear. He just wanted to fill the space, to stop the silence from swallowing him whole. 

Hokuto poked at his noodles, his gaze fixed on the rising steam. His lashes looked wet — from the steam, or maybe from something else.

“Maybe I just needed one,” he murmured, “before it’s too late.”

Taiga stilled. The words landed heavy, though Hokuto’s tone was light, almost careless. He didn’t ask what too late meant. He didn’t have to. Something in him already knew.

And Taiga knew, pressing on the matter, on Hokuto, would only make things worse. Because even people like him running away over something missing, and people like Hokuto… they were already running. 

So, he let it go. For now. At least, that's what he thought. 

Later, after they’d both given up on finishing their food, they strung their damp clothes over the railing. Taiga had insisted on doing it himself, but Hokuto pretended not to hear and helped anyway. 

Taiga sighed and let him — because people like Hokuto always did what they wanted. Since the first day he came to this town and sat at his cliff.

The studio now smelled of rain, salt, and something new Taiga couldn’t name. They sat again by the window, watching the downpour turn the sea into moving glass. The rain softened, but didn’t stop — that kind of persistent summer rain no one could predict.

Hokuto hugged his knees to his chest, forehead resting against them. In the soft glow of the streetlight, he looked like a man who had once been older than his years, and now couldn’t afford to be young again.

“I like this,” Hokuto whispered, slow, almost unheard.

Taiga glanced at him. “Like what?”

“This quiet. This…” His voice faltered. “…This you.”

Taiga’s chest clenched. His pulse roared louder than the storm.

That was it — the moment he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It was either now or never.

He knew the risk. He knew that everything he loved had always fallen apart. But for once, he didn’t want to run. He wanted to take the risk — even if it broke him.

“Hokuto —” Taiga began.

“Don’t.” The word came out rushed, Hokuto’s head still bowed, eyes avoiding his.

“Why not?” Taiga’s throat went dry, but he couldn’t stop.

“Because I don’t want you to say it.” Hokuto’s voice was final — or tried to be. But Taiga wasn’t done.

“Say what?” he asked quietly. Testing.

Hokuto finally lifted his head. His eyes were dark, wet, endless. The kind of gaze Taiga hated, because he could never read what pain lived there — only that it was deep.

“That you’re falling,” Hokuto said. 

Taiga didn’t answer right away. He shifted his gaze. He stared at the rain-streaked glass until his reflection blurred. 

Then, voice barely a breath, “I already did.”

Silence. A thunderclap in the distance. 

And Hokuto — Hokuto stood up so fast it startled them both. Like lightning had struck between them. Like a warning for him. For them. For everything. 

“Don’t,” he repeated. Firmer now. 

“Don’t fall in love with me.” he said, looking at Taiga.

Taiga rose too, heart hammering. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll hurt you,” Hokuto said, slowly, hesitantly.

“Then let me choose that.” Taiga’s voice trembled, but his words didn’t.

“You think you’re choosing now, but you’re not. You don’t know how this ends.” Hokuto’s tone cracked.

“No one does,” Taiga said firmly. “And I don’t care.”

“I do.” The words hung sharp and final between them.

Hokuto’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Taiga. I’m not —”

“You don’t get to decide what I can feel,” Taiga snapped, his voice breaking through the quiet.

“You don’t get to show up, steal my silence, fill my life with your weird little scribbles and sad eyes, and then tell me not to feel.”

He hadn’t meant to hurt Hokuto — but the truth came out like a wound reopening.

Hokuto’s face crumpled like paper. Fragile.

“I didn’t mean to —”

“But you did,” Taiga whispered. “You made me feel like I was allowed to want something. Again.”

“You are,” Hokuto said quietly. And he meant it. He knew better than anyone the danger of wanting something you couldn’t keep.

“Then why are you running?” Taiga asked, desperate. 

Hokuto’s voice cracked. “Because I’m dying, Taiga.”

And just like that — the air left the room.

Taiga didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. The storm outside swallowed everything.

It's not like Taiga didn't know that Hokuto was sick. He was aware of it when Hokuto said it. But he didn't want to think much of it, even though it came across his mind mostly. But hearing it — from him — still felt like being struck by the sky itself. 

Hokuto stood there, shaking. Tears slipped down without him trying to stop them.

“I didn’t want you to know more. I didn’t want you to waste this summer on me.”

“You weren’t a waste.” Taiga stepped forward, every movement careful, like approaching a wild thing. “You were the first thing I didn’t want to lose again.”

But Hokuto just shook his head. “It’s better if I leave now. While it still hurts less.”

And then — Hokuto just left. He didn't wait for Taiga to stop him. Didn’t even look back. He just disappeared into the rain, like he’d never been there at all.

That night, Taiga sat by the window alone. The rain showed no sign of stopping — not heavy, just endless. Persistent. 

Hokuto had run out without taking anything. And Taiga’s feet felt nailed to the floor, unable to move, unable to chase.

Outside, their clothes still hung on the railing — soaked again, forgotten.

Inside, Taiga’s heart felt just as drenched.

The studio was quiet except for the rain, which sounded like a thousand small heartbreaks hitting the glass.

On the floor beside him lay Hokuto’s notebook — forgotten, or maybe left behind on purpose.

Taiga picked it up with trembling hands. On the last page, scribbled at the very bottom in messy handwriting, was one line:

I wish I’d met you first. Before the end.

Taiga read it until the ink blurred. Until the storm passed. 

Until it felt like it had carved a space inside him he didn’t know how to fill.

It had been four days since that night.

Four sunsets bled over the water without Hokuto.

Four evenings Taiga climbed the cliff only to find it empty.

Four afternoons drifted by at the cafe, his hope thinning like steam.

Taiga never tried to look for Hokuto. He never asked around. In a town this small, even one question would have been enough to find him.

But Taiga just… waited.

He told himself it was pointless. He told himself he hated waiting.

But still, when the horizon bruised orange each evening, his feet moved on their own.

He went to the cliff. And when it turned dark, he stayed until the air grew sharp with cold.

The beach still smelled of salt and seaweed. The waves still whispered against the shore, same as always. But everything else felt tilted. Crooked. Like the town itself had been broken and only Taiga could feel the cracks.

Juri and Shintaro noticed, of course.

Taiga could see the way their glances lingered on him — worried, restless, trying not to pry.

Shintaro, especially, had nearly snapped on the second day, frustration spilling out after their supposedly long-awaited holiday together dissolved into awkward silences. Juri caught his arm before words could become knives, pulling him aside with a look that said not now.

Taiga felt guilty watching them. Guilty that their reunion had become something heavy. Guilty that he couldn’t shrug Hokuto out of his mind for even a minute.

But he was grateful, too — that neither of them forced him to talk, even though he could feel their questions vibrating at the back of their throats. Both of them were dying to corner him and make him spill everything.

But they didn’t.

They let him sit in his silence.

Because some heartbreaks needed space to breathe.

And then, on the fifth day — Taiga opened his door, and Hokuto was standing there.

Rain-soaked. Pale. Eyes rimmed red as though he hadn’t slept in days. No umbrella. No defenses. Just Hokuto.

And a voice so small Taiga almost thought he imagined it:

“Can I stay the night?”

Hokuto squinted against the light spilling into his room.

He didn’t know what time it was. He never cared. He had been slumped on his bed for God knew how long.

Then the thought struck him like lightning.

Taiga’s confession.

Was it last night? Two nights ago? Hokuto couldn’t tell. Time had blurred into one long ache.

He didn’t remember how he managed to leave Taiga’s studio. He only remembered running.

Running down the stairs, running through empty streets, running like something inside him would explode if he stopped. His head throbbed, his legs burned, and the cold night air tore at his lungs, the rain soaking the shirt Taiga had given him — but he kept going.

Because Taiga’s voice kept echoing in his head.

“I already did.” 

“You weren’t a waste. You were the first thing I didn’t want to lose again.”

And Hokuto hated how badly he wanted to hear it again.

By the time he stopped, he was already near the coastline. The waves crashed loudly, uncaring about the chaos inside him. He bent over, hands on his knees, struggling to breathe. The dizziness slammed into him a second later — a warning he stupidly ignored.

He fumbled for the small pillbox in his pocket. His lifeline. The reminder that he was sick. That he was running out of time. 

He hated the feel of it. Hated needing it. Hated how pointless it all felt.

The doctor’s words replayed gently, almost annoyingly:

“You can’t keep skipping doses, Hokuto. The fatigue will worsen. The dizziness will become dangerous.”

Dangerous. As if dying wasn’t already guaranteed.

But he couldn’t collapse yet. Not tonight.

Not like this.

He swallowed the pill and sank onto the cold sand. The rain was still falling, softer now, the moon peeking weakly through the clouds. The silver light made the water look calm — almost peaceful.

But Hokuto wasn’t peaceful at all. Not even close.

He pressed the heel of his palm over his eyes.

Why did Taiga have to say that? Why now? 

Why when Hokuto has no right to be anyone’s future?

But it wasn’t Taiga’s fault. It was his.

He should’ve stopped himself sooner.

He should’ve stayed away.

He knew this would happen eventually.

Yet day by day, his desire to see Taiga grew and grew, until he’d wandered into a depth he couldn’t climb back out of.

And now he’d dragged Taiga in with him. 

He’d hurt him — the one person he never wanted to hurt.

Hokuto wanted to love like everyone else.

A love that stayed.

A love that lasted through wrinkles and years and silver hair.

But that wasn’t the love he was allowed to have.

Taiga deserved someone who could promise him years — decades, even.

Someone who wasn’t already halfway gone.

And Hokuto hated himself for it.

Not for loving Taiga — he could never stop that.

But because Taiga finally reached out… and Hokuto’s response was to run.

Leaving felt like the kinder choice.

He kept repeating that, like a mantra he needed to believe.

But whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Taiga’s face during the confession — soft, earnest, terrified, and brave all at once.

And Hokuto crumbled all over again.

Taiga had taken the leap. Hokuto wanted to follow. He really, truly did.

But his world was cruel. He was running on borrowed time.

He didn’t dare reach. Didn’t dare receive something he couldn’t keep.

A sharp throb pierced his skull, a painful reminder of that reality. He curled in on himself, clutching his arms, the cold sand sticking to his skin as another wave of dizziness washed over him.

He wasn’t sure whether the shaking in his body came from the cold…

or from the fear of losing Taiga before he even had the chance to love him properly.

The rain eventually stopped. But Hokuto didn’t move for a long time.

His clothes were soaked, clinging cold against his skin, and his fingers trembled uncontrollably. Not from the temperature — he’d long gone numb — but from something deeper. Something carved out of guilt and longing.

When he finally managed to stand, his knees nearly buckled. There was nothing nearby to hold onto, so he braced his hands on his own knees, trying to steady himself, breathing through the spinning in his head.

He should go home. 

He should shower.

He should sleep.

He should forget Taiga’s voice whispering in his memory.

But every step felt like walking through water.

Halfway back to his room, he pressed a hand against a nearby lamppost, jaw clenched as another wave of dizziness surged.

Another unwelcome thought clawed its way in — his doctor’s warnings, Jesse’s frustration, Kochi’s quiet worry.

They would scold him. Tell him he was pushing too hard. Tell him he needed rest. Tell him he shouldn’t be out alone.

And Hokuto would nod, promise to be careful, and lie through his teeth. He always did.

He never cared to take care of himself. Not even when his family insisted. Not even when Jesse grumbled. Not even when Kochi tried so hard to help.

Because careful didn’t exist for someone who had no future to protect. Not for someone like Hokuto.

By the time he reached his small, dimly lit room, his legs were shaking too much to keep standing. He slid down onto the floor, head pressed against the wall.

He didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

Because crying meant admitting the ache was real.

Meant accepting that he was dying — and that he couldn’t keep loving Taiga.

He remembered his notebook — the one he always kept close — and realized it must still be at Taiga’s studio. The urge to write down the thoughts screaming inside him clawed at him stronger than the pain.

He didn’t have the strength to stand. So he dragged himself forward, inch by inch, toward the small table near his bed. A spare notebook lay on it.

His shaking hands trembled as he opened it and began to write.

His handwriting wobbled, ink bleeding slightly from the moisture still clinging to his skin.

‘I don’t want him to love me.

I don’t want him to stop, either.

I’m scared of being remembered, but I’m terrified of being forgotten.’

He paused, breath shaky.

Then wrote the one thing he had been avoiding for days.

‘If I had more time… I think I would have stayed by his side.’

He shut the notebook gently and placed it beside his pillow — as if hiding the words could make them less true.

That night, Hokuto lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the world spinning softly around him.

He thought he could stay away.

That he could create distance.

That Taiga’s confession would finally be the push he needed to disappear.

But all it did was make something inside him twist painfully.

He wanted Taiga.

He wanted him in every impossible way.

And that made everything worse.

For the next four days, Hokuto stayed in his room, curled up on his bed. He only left when he forced himself to walk outside — always choosing routes he knew Taiga wouldn’t be on. He passed the cafe once, and his chest tightened so sharply he had to stop walking.

He didn’t dare go near the cliff.

He didn’t dare look at the sea.

He didn’t dare think too long, because thinking meant remembering Taiga’s face glowing softly under the studio lights as he whispered —

“I already did.”

Hokuto would clutch the fabric of Taiga’s shirt tighter around him and breathe through the ache in his ribs.

Every night, he told himself it would fade.

It didn’t.

Every morning, he told himself he was doing the right thing.

He lied.

On the fifth day, after another sleepless night and a morning where even sitting up made his vision blur, Hokuto stood barefoot on the floor of his room, staring at the door.

He tried to convince himself he was going out for air.

That he wasn’t doing something foolish.

But his feet knew the way long before his mind admitted it.

His hand trembled around the doorknob.

He didn’t know what he would say.

He didn’t deserve Taiga’s patience.

He didn’t deserve his warmth.

He didn’t deserve the way Taiga kept choosing him despite everything.

But Hokuto’s chest ached with something unbearable, and before he knew it —

He was standing in front of Taiga’s studio door.

Rain soaking him anew. Breath unsteady.

He raised his fist weakly and knocked.

The moment Taiga opened the door, Hokuto felt his voice crumble into something small and fragile.

“Can I stay the night?”

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

Hokuto changed into one of Taiga’s old hoodies — one that hung loose on Taiga but fit Hokuto like it had been waiting all along. 

Hokuto looked warmer in it, softer, like the boy who sat on the cliff scribbling words could vanish if Taiga blinked too long.

Taiga made instant curry, fumbling with the packets just to keep his hands busy. They ate cross-legged on the floor, rain tapping steadily against the glass, filling the silence they could not bring themselves to break.

Finally, Hokuto set his spoon down, his voice breaking the silence like a fragile thread.

“I wasn’t going to come back.”

Taiga’s breath caught. He didn’t move.

“But I kept hearing your voice,” Hokuto whispered, gaze fixed on the floor. His lashes trembled. “In my head. Over and over. Like you… wouldn’t let me go. Even when I tried to leave. To keep running.”

His fingers curled against his knee. He swallowed, and the words shook as they fell.

“And then I wondered… if it would hurt less… or more… if I just let myself have one more night. So I came back.”

Taiga didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight.

Taiga couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even breathe properly.

His throat closed around every word he wanted to say — I’m glad you came back. Don’t go again. Please stay.

But none of it made it past his lips.

Later, when the lights were off and the rain softened to a murmur, they lay side by side in Taiga’s narrow bed. Too close not to feel the heat of each other’s skin. Too far for it to count as touch.

The ceiling was nothing but shadow. The sea beyond the window hummed like a distant lullaby.

“What are you thinking about?” Taiga asked into the dark.

Hokuto exhaled shakily. His eyes stayed closed.

“If this is a dream,” he whispered, “I don’t want to wake up.”

Slowly, Taiga reached out, careful as if any sudden movement might break the moment. Under the blanket, his hand found Hokuto’s. Fingers brushed, hesitated… then threaded together like they’d always belonged there.

“Then don’t,” Taiga breathed.

For a while, that was enough. Just the warmth of skin against skin. Just the miracle of existing in the same fragile space.

They didn’t kiss at first. They were almost afraid to. Instead, they leaned into each other — a slow, careful gravity that pulled them close until their foreheads touched. Until breaths mingled. Until restraint cracked.

Hokuto’s lips brushed Taiga’s, feather-light. Almost not there. Almost imaginary. Taiga pressed back, with steady certainty. A kiss that trembled with fear but burned with want.

A kiss not born from desperation, but from understanding.

Reverent. Careful. Honest.

A kiss that said: I love you now, even if tomorrow steals you from me.

A kiss that said: Stay, even if you can’t forever.

When they pulled apart, Hokuto’s eyes shone like wet glass. His voice cracked open around three words.

“I love you.”

Taiga smiled through the ache in his chest.

“I know. I’ve known.”

The night stretched around them — cruel and kind at once. They curled into each other, arms wrapped, foreheads pressed, hearts beating in reluctant sync.

And somewhere between midnight and dawn, Taiga let himself believe. Maybe love was worth the breaking. Maybe this was enough.

But when morning came —

The space beside him was cold.

The hoodie Hokuto had worn was folded neatly on the chair.

The notebook he’d left on the counter was gone.

And so was Hokuto.

No note left. No explanation. Only silence.

And the ghost of I love you, still echoing in Taiga’s chest — louder than the waves, sharper than the emptiness Hokuto had left behind.

Taiga pressed a hand to his lips, as if touching them could bring back the warmth.

He wondered, with a hollow ache, if Hokuto had ever really been there last night.

If the confession, the kiss… if it had been real — or just a desperate illusion conjured by his own longing.

The room felt impossibly large. Empty. Waiting. And Taiga, for the first time in a long while, felt the weight of a love he could not hold, and a presence he could not keep.

He lingered by the window, staring at the waves that seemed unchanged, as if nothing had ever touched them.

And yet, everything had changed.

The hoodie still smelled like Hokuto.

Rain, salt, and the faintest trace of his shampoo — that clean, impossible scent Taiga had memorized without meaning to.

For the whole day, Taiga left it untouched — folded neatly beside his bed, like an offering. Like a wound he refused to touch.

He didn’t go to the cafe.

He called in sick, his voice flat, and Juri didn’t argue. Taiga could tell Juri wanted to ask more, but instead he just sighed and said he’d handle things. Shintaro came to help too.

Luckily, Taiga’s parents were out of town visiting relatives, spending the summer there. He didn’t have to pretend. Didn’t have to come up with excuses for why he’d shut himself away again.

So he stayed inside. Curtains drawn. Lights off. Hours dissolving into each other.

He tried to sleep. Tried to make sense of what had happened. Tried to ask himself — was fighting for Hokuto worth it?

He didn’t regret it — not once.

But if he was the only one fighting, could love really survive that?

At least when Hokuto had been beside him, even briefly, it felt possible.

Even if it ended in nothing, he thought he could live with that.

As long as Hokuto had stayed.

When morning finally came again, Taiga sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the folded hoodie.

Before he realized it, he’d reached for it — pulling it over his head like instinct. It had always hung untouched in his closet, too big, too soft, something he used to think didn’t suit him. But now it fit perfectly, like it had been waiting for him.

It still smelled faintly of rain. Of Hokuto. Of that night he wished he could keep replaying forever.

He caught his reflection in the mirror — pale, hollow-eyed, but alive. Barely.

He didn’t recognize the person staring back at him. Tired. Haunted. But still… searching.

And then, almost without thinking, he grabbed his phone, his keys, and stepped outside.

All night, doubt had eaten at him. He didn’t know what was worth saving anymore.

But when morning light spilled through the curtains, something in him whispered: move before it dies.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for — forgiveness, maybe, or just proof that Hokuto had been real.

So he walked.

The path to the cafe felt longer than usual. Every step heavy, every thought looping back to the same ache. By the time he reached the familiar door, his heart felt raw.

Inside, Juri was at the counter, slicing lemons for their signature juice before opening.

He looked up immediately. “You look like shit,” he said flatly — meant as a tease, but the concern behind it was impossible to miss.

Taiga didn’t answer. He just slipped behind the counter, reaching for an apron like it was armor.

“Kyomo.” Juri’s voice softened. “You sure you’re okay? You can take another day off, you know.”

Taiga offered a faint smile. “I’m fine. Didn’t want to leave you doing everything alone.”

“Shintaro came by to help too. There’s not much to do.” Juri set the knife down and wiped his hands before turning fully toward Taiga. “You should figure out whatever’s weighing on you. Is it… Hokuto?”

He hesitated before adding, gently, “You can talk to me. You know that, right?”

Taiga’s fingers stilled on the counter. “I’m okay,” he said quietly. Then after a pause:

“Did Hokuto come by yesterday? Did you… see him anywhere?”

Juri shook his head. “No. Why? Did something happen?”

Taiga’s throat tightened. “I don’t know,” he said, voice trembling. “Maybe it’s my fault. I pushed him when he told me not to. I thought if I just… if I showed him I wasn’t afraid, maybe he’d stay. But he didn’t.”

He exhaled shakily, tears welling in his eyes. “He said he loved me, Juri. And then he left. Just like that. I don’t even know what to do now.”

For a moment, the cafe was silent except for the hum of the fridge.

Juri reached out, resting a hand over Taiga’s. “Hey,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

Taiga blinked hard, tears finally slipping down.

Juri didn’t interrupt. He’d seen this coming — ever since that first talk with Hokuto on the beach. He’d known the story would end here, in this quiet heartbreak. But knowing didn’t make it easier to watch.

He squeezed Taiga’s hand, steady and grounding. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Kyomo. You loved him. That’s not something you should ever apologize for.”

Taiga looked down, shoulders trembling. “Then why does it feel like I ruined everything?”

“Because it hurts,” Juri said softly. “That’s what love does when it’s real.”

He wanted to say more — to tell Taiga how Hokuto had looked that day at the beach, how he’d spoken like a man already saying goodbye — but he didn’t. Some truths only deepened the wound.

Juri could feel his chest tighten. Before Taiga even confessed, he’d known this might come.

He didn’t want to pry, didn’t want to assign blame. Because how could you fault anyone for loving?

So instead, he stepped forward and pulled Taiga into a hug.

Taiga froze for a moment — then sank into it, shoulders shaking.

“Whatever happens,” Juri murmured, his voice steady, “don’t stop living for him. Don’t let this be where you end too.”

He remembered too vividly what Taiga had been like when he first returned from the city — empty, quiet, unreachable. And Juri couldn’t watch that happen again. Not this time.

So he held him a little tighter.

If Taiga chose to keep fighting for love, Juri would stay beside him.

If he chose to let go, Juri would still stay beside him.

He didn’t need to say it out loud.

Taiga’s faint nod against his shoulder said he understood.

And Juri, staring past him at the morning light filtering through the window, hoped quietly that somewhere — wherever he was — Hokuto was still close enough to come back.

That evening, Taiga climbed the cliff like he always did.

Step after step, his lungs burning, his heart heavier than the air around him.

He didn’t know what he was praying for — a sign, a miracle, or maybe just the strength to stop hoping.

But he climbed anyway.

The wind was sharp, biting at his cheeks as if to remind him what reality felt like. The kind of wind that stripped away dreams. Still, he kept going — higher, toward the place that had once been theirs.

And when he finally reached the top, he stopped.

His breath caught halfway out of his chest.

Because his prayer had been heard.

There — in the dim orange light of dusk — sat the figure he’d been searching for.

Hokuto.

He was sitting cross-legged, knees drawn to his chest, hair wild from the sea breeze. The ocean wind tangled through it, carrying salt and silence. He looked smaller than Taiga remembered — like the world had been taking pieces from him one by one, and he’d stopped trying to hold them all together.

Taiga’s legs almost gave out as he walked forward, each step trembling.

“You came back,” he breathed. The words barely made it past his lips.

“I didn’t mean to,” Hokuto said quietly, eyes still on the sea. He didn’t need to look up — he knew that voice too well.

“But you did,” Taiga said.

And then, because standing felt impossible, he sat down beside Hokuto — close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. Close enough to feel real.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The only sound was the sea below, breaking against the rocks — slow, endless, alive.

“I’m sorry,” Hokuto said at last. His voice cracked, soft and brittle. “I left because I thought it would make things easier.”

Taiga’s gaze stayed on the horizon. “Did it?” he asked quietly.

Hokuto finally turned to face him. His eyes were rimmed red, the kind of exhaustion that went deeper than sleeplessness.

“No,” he whispered.

Taiga leaned back on his hands, letting the wind sting his eyes. The horizon stretched endlessly before them — where sky and sea blurred into one shade of fading gold.

“You told me not to fall in love with you,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“You told me it would hurt.”

“It does.” Hokuto’s voice shook on the last word.

Taiga turned to him — his expression soft, but sure. “I don’t care anymore,” he said, his voice trembling, but steady enough to mean it.

“I’d rather waste the rest of my summer loving you… than spend the rest of my life wishing I had.”

The wind swallowed the words, but Hokuto heard them. Felt them.

And in that moment, Taiga finally understood what Juri had meant — about living for someone, not because of them. This was it.

He knew how hard it would be. How much it would hurt. But for once, he was sure.

Hokuto’s face broke — just a little. Like a boy trying to hold back a storm. But he didn’t cry.

He reached out instead, his hand trembling as it found Taiga’s. Their fingers locked together, tight — as if letting go would undo everything. His palm was cold and trembling.

“Then waste it with me,” he whispered.

The sea roared below them, the sky turning soft with the first touch of night.

Taiga closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath.

Finally.

He didn’t need promises. He didn’t need forever.

Just this — Hokuto beside him, the warmth of his hand, the sound of the waves carrying their silence.

Maybe love wasn’t about how long it lasted.

Maybe it was about being brave enough to stay until the very end.

And if this was what it meant to waste his heart, then he was willing to spend all of it here.

The days after blurred into moments.

Like photographs burned at the edges.

Like dreams you wake from but can still taste.

Time softened around them, stretching and folding, as if the world itself was trying to slow their ending.

Taiga showed Hokuto everything — all the corners of the town he’d once wandered alone. The places that had raised him, the ones that had kept him company when silence was like his only friend.

The hidden waterfall in the hills, where sunlight shattered across the surface like glass.

The old bookstore near the station, smelling of paper and dust and the faint nostalgia of someone else’s story.

The sea cave no one visited anymore, where the echo of their laughter bounced back like ghosts refusing to leave.

Sometimes Hokuto would write something down in his notebook — a line, a word, a half-thought.

When Taiga tried to peek, Hokuto would just smile, close the page, and say, “Not yet.”

And Taiga would nod, pretending it didn’t sting, while hiding the ache that settled deeper each time. He knew, somehow, those pages would be what he treasured most later — if everything fell apart.

One morning, while Hokuto slept by the window, leaning back against the wall near the balcony — his face half-lit by the early sun, the sound of waves slipping through the open door — Taiga froze.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Hokuto looked unreal in that light.

Painfully beautiful. 

Like something that existed only because Taiga had dared to dream.

Before he even realized it, his body was already moving.

He crossed the room, reaching for his camera sitting on his counter — buried under stacks of papers and dust, abandoned since the day he came back from the city. He’d told himself he couldn’t lift it anymore. That the weight of it would crush him.

But today, for the first time in months, he managed to pick it up.

It felt different in his hands this time.

Not heavy. Not haunting. Just… familiar.

Like something that had been waiting patiently for him to come home.

He didn’t plan the shot. He didn’t even think.

He just lifted the lens and pressed the shutter.

The sound clicked softly through the room — a heartbeat caught in time.

The photograph wasn’t perfect. The light fell unevenly across Hokuto’s cheek, and the focus was slightly off.

But it was real.

It was alive.

And somehow, in that tiny moment, something inside Taiga shifted.

He felt it — the faint pulse of wanting again.

Maybe it wasn’t just Hokuto he was trying to hold on to.

Maybe it was himself.

When Hokuto stirred awake — which Taiga hadn’t noticed — he caught the smile spreading across Taiga’s face, the glint in his eyes. And then he saw what Taiga was holding. His heart swelled quietly in his chest.

Taiga had finally picked up his camera again.

And for Hokuto, that felt like a prayer answered.

He’d always hoped, silently, that before everything ended, he would get to see Taiga behind the lens again — to see how Taiga saw the world when he was still capable of love.

When Taiga realized he’d been caught, he tore his gaze from the camera screen and laughed softly. “You’ll laugh at how bad it turns out.”

Hokuto’s lips curved into a sleepy grin. “Then I hope you show me anyway.”

And Taiga did — every picture after that.

The sky after rain. Their hands tangled on the sand.

The small, fleeting moments between laughter and silence.

He captured them all, not for beauty, but for proof —

That they had been here.

That this love had existed.

That week, the summer festival arrived — lanterns strung across the streets, the air heavy with smoke, laughter, and the scent of grilled corn and sweet syrup.

Juri and Shintaro had been texting since morning, blowing up their group chat and demanding Taiga bring Hokuto along.

Group Chat

[Juri]:

Hope you still remember our promise to go to the summer festival together.

[Taiga]:

Did I even make that promise willingly?

[Shintaro]:

KYOMO! Don’t do this to me. I basically begged you that time!

[Juri]:

LOL Shintaro might storm back to the city if you bail.

[Taiga]:

Demander.

[Shintaro]:

Bring Hokuto. Let’s hang out together.

[Taiga]:

No way. You’ll hog him.

[Juri]:

LOL possessive much? Just bring him. It’s not like we’re gonna bite.

[Shintaro]:

Yeah, we’re kind people. Promise.

Taiga showed the message to Hokuto, who smiled faintly. “Are your friends always this dramatic?”

“Always,” Taiga said, trying not to smile too much. “You’ll get used to them.”

“They sound fun,” Hokuto replied softly. “Let’s go to the festival.”

Taiga caught the warmth in his tone and nodded.

When they reached the festival, Shintaro was already there with Juri, waving over from a food stall. 

“Finally! The lovebirds arrive!” Shintaro shouted.

Taiga rolled his eyes. Hokuto flushed red.

They’d met Juri and Shintaro a few times before at the cafe — brief, polite encounters where Taiga had made them swear not to overwhelm Hokuto. They’d listened, surprisingly. And maybe that’s why Taiga was grateful for them. But this evening felt different. Like stepping out into the open, no longer hiding what they were.

Juri’s grin softened when he finally saw the two of them together up close. There was something new in Taiga’s expression — light where there used to be shadow, steadiness where there was once hesitation. For the first time in months, Taiga looked alive again.

Then his gaze dropped to the camera hanging from Taiga’s neck.

He’d known about it — Hokuto had told him secretly that Taiga had started taking photos again. But seeing it there now made Juri feel like a proud parent. He bit back the sting in his chest, until Shintaro nudged him with a knowing smile.

Juri smiled back. Both of them were just… happy to see Taiga finding his color again.

“Okay, let’s have some fun!” Shintaro cheered, wrapping his arms around both Taiga and Juri in an uninvited group hug. Then he turned to Hokuto, his grin bright. “You too, Hokuto. Let’s make today worth it, yeah?”

Hokuto chuckled quietly, catching Taiga’s mock-annoyed grunt. Watching the three of them bicker, he was suddenly reminded of Jesse and Kochi. The thought stung — fleeting, bittersweet — but he quickly pushed it aside. Focus on what’s here now, he told himself.

They spent the evening wandering through the stalls — trying goldfish scooping, eating takoyaki that burned their tongues, sharing shaved ice that melted faster than they could eat.

Juri teased. Shintaro complained. Hokuto laughed quietly at both.

When Shintaro won a small prize at a stall, he then tossed it toward Hokuto. “Here! A token from your first festival with us!”

Hokuto caught it awkwardly — a small, cheap charm shaped like a goldfish. He smiled at it, then tucked it carefully into his pocket, like it meant more than it should.

“Thank you,” he said softly. Juri and Taiga exchanged smiles at the scene.

When the fireworks started, they stood by the beach together — four silhouettes framed by color and smoke. 

Hokuto tilted his head up, eyes glowing with the reflection of the sky.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

Taiga looked at Hokuto instead. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It is.”

While Hokuto was still watching the fireworks, Taiga lifted his camera again — quietly, instinctively — and pressed the shutter.

He took a few more shots before: the festival stalls, Juri and Shintaro mid-bicker, Hokuto’s soft smile as he watched them.

He wanted to keep them all.

Every laugh, every flicker of light, every fleeting moment that proved this summer was real.

When Hokuto turned to look at him, Taiga clicked once more — catching that smile, that exact second of peace — and for a heartbeat, everything stopped.

The laughter. The noise. The ache.

All of it folded into that single moment, the kind Taiga wished he could photograph forever.

Juri threw an arm around Shintaro, nudging Taiga from the side. “This is the part where you two kiss, right?”

Taiga groaned. “Shut up.”

But Hokuto just smiled, whispering under the noise of the fireworks —

“Don’t. He’s right.”

And then he leaned in — soft, unhurried, lips tasting of summer and firelight.

Taiga gasped, surprised for only a second before kissing back — steady, sure.

They pulled away just as Juri and Shintaro shrieked dramatically.

“Whoa! Didn’t think you’d actually do it!” Shintaro laughed. “Should we try it too, Juri?”

“No way!” Juri yelped, shoving him off with a slap to the shoulder.

Shintaro clutched his chest in mock pain, still grinning.

Taiga and Hokuto laughed over it. Taiga saw Juri’s face flush bright red while Shintaro grinned like he’d just won something.

And for once, Taiga didn’t think about tomorrow.

Didn’t think about the endings.

He just thought — this is enough.

Hokuto had spent most of his life learning how to disappear into work.

Wake. Commute. Meetings. Deadlines. Repeat.

He wore his exhaustion like a second skin — pressed shirt, polite smile, the scent of cheap coffee clinging to his sleeves.

He laughed when coworkers joked about him being married to his job. He stayed late because it was easier than going home to silence.

The city lights blurred into habit — neon and noise filling the spaces where feeling used to live.

The headaches began quietly.

A dull throb behind his eyes that came and went.

He blamed the screens. The stress. The overtime.

Then came the dizziness — fleeting at first, then constant.

Sometimes, he’d lose his balance walking down the hall, or forget what he was about to say mid-sentence.

He ignored it. Like he ignored everything else that didn’t fit neatly into the life he’d built around avoidance.

He told himself:

Just a migraine. Just fatigue. Just keep going.

He’d always been good at pretending pain didn’t exist — at smiling through it until it passed.

But this one didn’t pass.

It stayed.

It grew.

One evening, during a usual dinner with his friends, they started teasing him — saying he should take better care of himself instead of working like a madman. Hokuto just laughed it off, insisting it was only migraines.

But Kochi saw through it. He always did. Years of working as a nurse had sharpened his instincts too much to miss the faint pallor in Hokuto’s face or the way his hand kept rubbing his temple.

Kochi was his high school friend — the one who knew him inside out.

Jesse, sitting across from him, clicked his tongue.

“Better not pass out from exhaustion, man. I’m not picking you up in my ambulance,” he joked, though there was worry beneath it.

Jesse had met Hokuto back in university through a volunteer club. They’d grown close, even after life sent them down different paths — Hokuto to office towers, Jesse to emergency sirens.

When Kochi later introduced Jesse as his boyfriend, Hokuto was shocked.

“You two?!” he’d blurted, and the three of them had never stopped laughing about it.

Since then, they’d been each other’s pillars — their little triangle of loyalty.

So when Kochi and Jesse both started urging him to get checked, Hokuto finally relented. “Fine,” he’d said, hands up in surrender. “I’ll go. But if you nag me one more time, I’m bailing.”

They’d laughed. But Kochi’s eyes lingered longer than usual, worry tightening his jaw.

The hospital visit should have been routine. A quick consultation. Maybe some medication for migraines.

The CT scan was supposed to be precautionary.

When the nurse called his name and led him into the doctor’s office, Hokuto expected reassurance.

Not silence.

Not the look in the doctor’s eyes that made his stomach drop.

“This is the scan we took earlier,” the doctor said gently, pointing to a faint shadow on the screen. “We found a mass here.”

Hokuto felt his blood run cold.

“It’s in a difficult area to operate,” the doctor continued. “We’ll do our best to manage the symptoms, but…”

He didn’t hear the rest.

The hum of the air conditioner filled his head, louder than the word tumor.

He walked out of the hospital without really knowing how.

A paper bag of medicine hung loosely from his hand — as if it could fix him, as if it could bring him back to the person he used to be.

The city noise pressed against him — car horns, voices, life still moving while his felt like it had stopped mid-breath.

That night, he stared at his ceiling for hours, waiting for fear to feel like something.

But all he felt was stillness.

Like everything inside him had gone quiet.

It can’t be true.

It must be a mistake.

But the next morning, when he woke up, the bag of medicine was still there. The diagnosis still sat on his counter — mocking him with its certainty.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not then.

He couldn’t bear the pity, or the panic.

Especially not from his family.

He didn’t want them to come running out of guilt. He didn’t want to become their burden again. That’s why he’d worked so hard — to stand on his own.

And now, he couldn’t even do that.

When Kochi and Jesse asked about his check-up, he lied easily.

“Just migraines. Doctor says I should rest.”

They believed him. Or maybe they wanted to.

He kept going like before — lying to himself that he’d be fine if he just took the pills.

But the body doesn’t listen to lies.

Each week, the symptoms worsened.

The dizziness lasted longer. The headaches grew sharper. Sometimes, words slipped from his memory like sand through fingers.

Until the night his body finally refused.

He was halfway home from the train station when his vision tilted sideways. The pavement rippled. The sound of his own heartbeat pounded in his ears.

He tried to steady himself against the wall, his briefcase slipping from his fingers, his knees giving out.

He hit the ground hard. And then everything went dark.

When he woke up, the world was a blur of red lights and sirens. A hand gripped his shoulder, steady and trembling all at once.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me, yeah?”

Hokuto blinked slowly, the voice filtering through the haze. Familiar.

“Jesse…?”

Jesse’s face hovered above him — paramedic uniform, panic written across every line. “You idiot,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were this bad?”

Hokuto tried to smile, but it hurt. “Didn’t want to worry anyone.”

“Too late for that,” Jesse said, his jaw tight as he guided the stretcher into the ambulance.

The rest came in fragments — the hum of tires, the glare of hospital lights, the sharp smell of antiseptic.

When hokuto finally regained his consciousness, another voice — softer, steadier, one that carried both relief and heartbreak.

“Hokuto?”

Kochi stood by the hospital bed, still in his scrubs, his expression unreadable. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Kochi’s voice cracked.

“You said it was just a migraine,” he whispered.

“Guess I lied,” Hokuto said faintly, his eyes fluttering shut again.

When he woke up next, Jesse and Kochi were standing side by side, silent. The doctor was there too.

“It’s a brain tumor,” the doctor said. “Located near the frontal lobe. It’s pressing against the nerves that control vision and balance. It can lead to death if not treated, and the condition seems to be progressing quite fast. Surgery isn’t impossible… but risky.”

The doctor’s words hung heavy in the air.

“And without surgery?” Jesse asked, his voice shaking.

The doctor sighed. “We focus on comfort… and time.”

Time.

The word lodged itself like a shard in Hokuto’s chest.

When the doctor left, silence filled the room. Jesse rubbed his face roughly. Kochi sank into the chair beside the bed, hands trembling in his lap.

Finally, Kochi spoke, voice raw. “Why didn’t you tell us? You can’t deal with this alone, Hoku. You need treatment. You need — ”

“I need time,” Hokuto interrupted quietly. “And I don’t want to spend it hooked up to machines.”

Jesse’s head snapped up. “You think keeping it quiet is better? You think disappearing will make it better? You think that’s easier for anyone?”

Hokuto didn’t answer. He just looked out the window — at the pale morning bleeding through the blinds. The city stretched beyond it, loud and alive, moving forward without him.

“I’m not running,” he said finally. “I just… don’t want to be watched while I fade.”

Kochi’s voice broke. “Then what are you going to do?”

Hokuto turned back to them, eyes calm but hollow. “I don’t know yet. But I can’t stay here.”

He resigned a few days after being discharged.

It felt like cutting the last tie to the version of himself that had existed before the diagnosis.

Kochi and Jesse refused to leave him alone.

When Hokuto finally told his parents, Kochi stood by him. They cried — guilt, fear, love all tangled into one. Hokuto assured them there was no one to blame.

A month passed in hospital visits, quiet meals, and hovering concern.

Until one night, Hokuto couldn’t take it anymore.

He told them he wanted to spend the summer alone — his wish before it was too late.

Jesse argued. Kochi pleaded. His parents cried.

But Hokuto begged — and in the end, they let him go.

Only with promises.

He’d text Jesse and Kochi every day. He wouldn’t make his parents worry. He’d call if things got worse.

So he packed a single suitcase. Left the keys on the table. And walked away from the life that once felt endless.

He told Jesse he’d text when he got there — though he never said where there was.

He told Kochi he’d be fine — and Kochi pretended to believe him.

He found the seaside town by accident — a stopover that became a hiding place.

A place where no one knew his name, where he could wait out whatever time he had left without questions or expectations.

He told himself he wasn’t running.

Just… waiting.

Until he met Taiga.

Hokuto had thought Taiga was just a simple coincidence — someone he happened to meet on the cliff.

But day by day, he couldn’t help but want to see him again.

He hadn’t meant for it to grow — the routine, the comfort, the quiet joy of being seen again.

Even after Hokuto told Taiga about being sick, Taiga had just shrugged it off, as if it didn’t matter — yet he still showed up, every time. At first, Hokuto thought Taiga was just being kind to someone in need. But he wasn’t. Taiga didn’t see him as weak or pitiful. And the more Hokuto learned about him, the more he found himself drawn in.

He could feel something building between them — slow, patient, inevitable.

And it terrified him.

He told himself he couldn’t stay.

That if it started to feel like love, he would run.

Before Taiga could see the full truth. Before he could ruin someone else’s future the way his own had already been decided.

Hokuto wanted to stay away. He wanted to respect Juri’s worry, to remain a temporary stranger, someone who didn’t cling to Taiga. He promised himself he would do it.

But day by day, the distance he promised himself to keep began to shrink.

Taiga laughed, and Hokuto found himself wanting to memorize the sound.

Taiga touched his fingers once, and Hokuto couldn’t stop thinking about it for days.

He started writing again — fragments, thoughts, things he would never say aloud.

Through his illness, Hokuto had learned that his memory could fail him. So he kept his notebook close, to remember, to preserve every fleeting moment.

And somewhere between the waves and the quiet, between Taiga’s eyes and his own trembling hands, Hokuto realized something cruel:

He had spent his whole life trying not to want anything.

And now, at the very end, he wanted everything.

He wanted Taiga more than anything.

But reality was cruel — and that’s what he had told himself so many times.

That’s why, when Taiga first confessed his feelings, Hokuto ran away.

Because finally, guilt had caught up to him — the weight of promises broken, the truth he had tried to ignore, and the love he knew he didn’t deserve.

He thought running would make it easier.

That distance could dull the ache.

But it didn’t.

The first night, he couldn’t sleep.

The second, he couldn’t breathe.

By the third, his body ached as if grief itself had settled in his bones.

He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t want to. The thought of seeing their names — Jesse, Kochi — felt too heavy to face.

When he finally glanced at the screen, there were dozens of missed calls.

Messages stacked one after another.

Group Chat

[Kochi]:

Are you okay? You didn’t text today.

[Kochi]:

Hokuto, please reply. Jesse’s worried.

[Jesse]:

If you don’t answer soon, I’m driving there myself. Even if I don't know where there is, I’ll find you.

[Kochi]:

Hoku, please. Just one message. Anything.

He read them all in silence, then turned his phone face-down on the table.

It wasn’t until the fourth day — when the phone buzzed again, vibrating against the small table besides his bed, until it almost fell — that he finally answered.

“Hokuto,” Kochi’s voice came through immediately, tight with relief and anger tangled together. “Thank God. Where the hell have you been?”

Hokuto pressed a hand over his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I just… needed some time.”

“Four days, Hokuto,” Kochi snapped softly. “You promised you’d message every day.”

“I know,” he answered weakly. 

“Do you have any idea how worried we were? Jesse nearly called your parents.”

Hokuto winced. “Don’t. Please. I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I just—” he hesitated, the words catching on his tongue, “I messed up.”

There was a pause. Kochi’s tone softened. “You mean Taiga?”

Hokuto’s silence was enough of an answer.

Both Kochi and Jesse had learned about Taiga the week before — small details Hokuto had shared without realizing.

Both of them had been quietly relieved that someone was there for him in that faraway town.

But worry still lingered.

And for Kochi, who had known Hokuto the longest, he could already tell — Taiga wasn’t just someone passing by.

Kochi sighed, a long, heavy sound that carried more care than frustration. “I knew something like this would happen. You found someone who made you want to stay and that’s exactly what scares you.”

Hokuto’s throat tightened. “He confessed,” he whispered. “And I ran. I thought I could handle it, that I could just… disappear before it got worse.”

“But it didn’t work,” Kochi said quietly.

Hokuto laughed, brokenly. “No. It didn’t.”

Kochi was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice trembled. “You always do this, Hoku. You think loving someone means you’re hurting them. You think leaving is mercy. But it’s not.”

“I don’t want him to watch me fall apart,” Hokuto said, voice breaking.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to watch you disappear, either,” Kochi replied softly.

The line went quiet except for the sound of Hokuto’s unsteady breathing.

Finally, Kochi said, “Jesse wanted me to tell you something. He said — if you’re going to waste time, at least waste it with the people who love you.”

Hokuto’s eyes stung. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, as if distance could shrink the ache.

“I don’t know if I can,” he whispered.

“You can,” Kochi said firmly. “You just have to let yourself.”

The line went quiet for a long time.

“I don’t know,” Hokuto said finally.

Kochi sighed but didn’t push further. “Just keep updating us, okay? Promise me that.”

“... I promise.”

When the call ended, Hokuto sat in silence.

The waves outside crashed softly, the sound almost like a heartbeat.

And for the first time in days, he reached for his notebook, hands trembling, and began to write again.

I’m not a part of your future, Taiga.
Even so… I wanted to see you more.
I still wanted to see your smile.
Because the time I spent with you… is my everything.

He closed the book slowly, pressing his palm over the cover — as if to keep the words from escaping.

The night, when Hokuto stayed over at Taiga’s place — when he finally confessed what he truly felt — Taiga wasn’t angry.

He didn’t ask why Hokuto had run, or why he had come back.

He just looked at him, quietly, and nodded — as if he had already known all along.

And that simple acceptance nearly broke Hokuto.

Because if Taiga never gave up on him, how could he give up on Taiga?

Still, part of him whispered it wasn’t fair — to make Taiga love someone who might not have a future to give.

That night, Taiga fell asleep first. His breathing was steady, soft, his face pressed against Hokuto’s shoulder.

And for hours, Hokuto just lay there, eyes tracing every detail — the curve of his lashes, the warmth of his cheek, the rise and fall of his chest.

He memorized everything. Every breath. Every small sound.

As if he could burn it all into memory before time took it away.

He wanted to stay.

He wanted a hundred more nights like this.

But he knew he wouldn’t have them.

When the morning came, Taiga was still asleep. The light filtered softly through the curtains, catching on the dust in the air.

Hokuto brushed a hand through Taiga’s hair, smiled faintly, and whispered,

“Thank you… for letting me love you.” He pressed a kiss to Taiga’s forehead — soft and lingering — before slipping away from the bed.

He changed into his last night's clothes, folded the one Taiga had lent him neatly on the chair, and glanced around the room once more.

Then he reached for the notebook he had left there before — the one Taiga must have read — and left quietly.

When he reached his own room, he collapsed onto the bed, the silence pressing around him.

He opened the notebook again, fingertips tracing the faint, uneven stains on the page — water marks that weren’t his.

Taiga had read it.

And Hokuto knew, painfully, how much Taiga must have cried over it.

His chest ached. How could he make the person he loved cry for him?

If he could, he wanted to make Taiga happy — not grieving a love doomed by time.

He sat there the entire day, staring out at the horizon, wondering if his confession had been a mistake — or the only right thing he’d ever done.

But deep down, he knew. If he hadn’t said it, Taiga would have spent forever wondering whether he’d ever truly loved him at all.

When dawn came again, Hokuto made his decision.

For once, he wanted to be selfish.

He wanted to stop running.

He wanted to love Taiga — fully, recklessly, without counting the days left.

That evening, he climbed the cliff and waited at their usual spot.

The wind was sharp, the sea restless below — and yet, for the first time, he felt calm.

He wasn’t running anymore.

Not from love.

Not from Taiga.

This time, he had come back — to stay, to keep his promise and to waste the rest of the summer loving Taiga.

The last week of August came too quickly. Too cruelly.

The days slipped through Taiga’s fingers like grains of sand, impossible to hold, no matter how tight he clenched.

Still, they spent every one of them together.

They laughed like they had more time.

They held each other like the future wasn’t already written.

When Hokuto got dizzy from walking too long, Taiga would pretend it wasn’t serious, teasing him lightly, “You’re just being dramatic,” even as his hand stayed firm at Hokuto’s waist, steady and terrified to let go.

And when Hokuto’s eyes fluttered shut mid-conversation, exhaustion claiming him like a tide, Taiga would brush his hair from his forehead and whisper, “I’m still here.”

He always was. 

Every hour, every breath, every heartbeat — Taiga stayed.

They never spoke about what came next.

Neither dared to disturb the fragile illusion they had built, the dream that felt too tender to name aloud.

But summer was slipping through their fingers, and even if neither said it aloud, both could feel the season beginning to end.

The beach had emptied of tourists.

The skies grew quieter, the cicadas fading, their song replaced by the restless hum of the ocean.

And Hokuto… Hokuto began fading too, like the season itself.

Some mornings he couldn’t get out of bed.

Other days he didn’t wake until noon, his breaths shallow, his eyes dim with exhaustion.

His notebook stayed closed. The pages that once spilled with words and sketches remained untouched.

He smiled less. His laughter came in fragments.

But he never stopped reaching for Taiga’s hand.

Never stopped leaning against his shoulder.

Never stopped whispering “thank you” when Taiga supported him walking back home from the cliff, or when Taiga kissed his forehead like a vow.

That night, they lay beneath the stars, Hokuto curled into Taiga’s chest, the night air sharp with salt.

“It’s almost time,” Hokuto murmured. His voice was steady, but his fingers trembled against Taiga’s shirt.

“Don’t,” Taiga whispered quickly, tightening his arms around him.

“Please don’t say it.”

Hokuto exhaled softly. “We both knew this was a summer thing.”

“You weren’t a thing,” Taiga snapped, his throat raw.

“You were… everything.”

The silence that followed was heavy, like the sky pressing down on them.

Finally, Hokuto said gently, almost kindly, “You’re going to live so much longer than me.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Taiga begged.

“But it’s true.”

“And you’re still here now,” Taiga insisted, voice cracking as he buried his face in Hokuto’s hair.

“So be here. Just… be here with me.”

They lay there for a long time, listening to the waves strike the shore, counting seconds like they mattered more than whole lifetimes.

And then Hokuto whispered what he hadn’t dared before, “Promise me something.”

Taiga pulled back just enough to see his face. “What?”

“If one day you leave this town… if something bigger comes along — promise me you’ll come back.”

Taiga froze, eyes wide.

“Come back here… next summer,” Hokuto continued, voice barely a breath. “Same place. Same time. Even if I’m not here.”

Taiga shook his head, the thought unbearable. “Why would I —? Hokuto, if you’re not here, I —”

“Because I want you to remember me… happy,” Hokuto said firmly, though his lips trembled.

“Not as someone sick. Not in pain. I want you to remember me here… beyond the sunsets. Under the stars. By the waves. Where I was yours.”

Taiga’s chest felt like it was splitting open. His lungs couldn’t hold the air. But he forced himself to nod, to honor what Hokuto asked, even as it shattered him.

He reached out, pressing Hokuto’s hand flat against his chest.

“This is where I’ll remember you,” Taiga whispered.

“Every season. Every year. Even if this town disappears off the map — you’ll still be here.”

Hokuto smiled then. Soft. Tired. Beautiful.

“Then it won’t be a waste, right?”

“It never was,” Taiga said. His voice broke.

They didn’t sleep that night.

They stayed awake, holding each other like they could chain themselves to this moment, like the dawn wouldn’t come if they didn’t let it.

And maybe it was their last anchor to this life.

When Taiga finally blinked awake at sunrise, Hokuto was still there. Still breathing. Still his.

But only for one more day.

The goodbye came quietly, without ceremony.

At the train station, the air smelled of metal and departure.

Strangers shuffled past, dragging luggage. A conductor called out times, his voice too loud, too casual for a moment that felt like the end of the world.

Taiga stood there with Hokuto, hands laced tight, palms damp. Neither spoke at first.

The silence was suffocating.

Every second the clock ticked overhead felt like another nail in Taiga’s chest.

“I’ll miss it if you don’t let go,” Hokuto said softly, not looking at him.

“I don’t care,” Taiga said firmly, tightening his grip.

“Taiga…” Hokuto finally met his eyes. They were glassy, rimmed red. “You have to.”

Taiga’s jaw clenched. He shook his head, fingers tightening like they could anchor Hokuto here. “I don’t. I don’t have to let you go.”

“You do.” Hokuto’s voice cracked. “Because if you don’t, I won’t have the strength to leave.”

The words hit like a blade. Taiga’s throat closed. He swallowed hard, but the tears spilled anyway.

“Thank you,” Hokuto whispered suddenly, trembling as he reached to brush his thumb against Taiga’s cheek. “For loving me… even when I made it hard to.”

Taiga’s chest heaved. He wanted to scream. To pull Hokuto back, to shout to the world that he refused this ending. Instead, all he managed was a broken, “Stay.”

“I can’t.” Hokuto’s lips curved into the smallest, saddest smile Taiga had ever seen. “But I wanted you to know… I was happy.”

The whistle blew. The doors slid open. People brushed past them, stepping inside.

Taiga’s grip didn’t loosen until the last possible second, until Hokuto gently pulled his hand free. Their fingers slipped apart slowly, painfully, like skin tearing.

Hokuto stepped back onto the train, eyes never leaving Taiga’s.

For a heartbeat, he almost turned around — Taiga could see it, could feel it — but then the doors closed between them.

Through the glass, Hokuto raised his hand.

A wave. Small. Shaking. Final.

The train lurched forward. 

Taiga stumbled a step after it, his hand half-reaching before falling uselessly to his side.

The engine roared. The scent of rain and salt was swallowed by steel and distance.

And Hokuto was gone.

The platform emptied until only Taiga remained, knees weak, chest hollow, tears dripping silently onto the concrete.

He stayed long after the train vanished from sight, staring at the tracks, whispering into the wind,

“You weren’t a waste. You were everything.”

And though his heart felt shattered, it was also unbearably, impossibly full.

Because he had loved.

And been loved back.

Even if only for one summer.

The train pulled into the station with its usual metallic groan, but for Taiga, it sounded like old wounds tearing open again.

One year.

Three hundred and sixty-five days since he last stood on this platform — since Hokuto left.

Three hundred and sixty-five days that had stretched endlessly, and yet folded into a single breath now that he was here again.

The same rusty bench waited by the platform, its paint chipped, the metal warm under the late summer sun.

The same sleepy town spread before him, quiet and unchanged — as if time itself had refused to move on.

The air smelled of salt and rain, and the wind that brushed past him felt achingly familiar.

It carried whispers of laughter that once belonged to someone he still caught himself looking for in every passing crowd.

He stepped off the train alone.

No luggage. No plan.

Only the promise he had made — the one that brought him back here, to the place where everything began and quietly ended.

Where, somehow, a part of him still lived.

Taiga still hated this town, but somehow, he loved it too.

Maybe what people said was true — that this place had softened him in ways he’d never admit.

Taiga walked through the narrow streets, where the cicadas cried softer now, their song slower, tired — as though even summer itself was nearing its end.

The little bookstore near the station was still there, the bell above the door jingling faintly as he passed.

Through the window, he saw the same old man dozing behind the counter.

The sight made something twist quietly in his chest.

He almost smiled — remembering someone else who used to fall asleep mid-conversation.

Farther down, the path to the beach was lined with wildflowers — the same stretch where Hokuto had once stopped, borrowing his camera to take a picture of the sky, saying it “looked like the kind of blue you could fall into.”

Taiga could still hear his voice in his head when the wind moved through the grass.

He reached the familiar turn leading up to the cliff — the same path where they once ran hand-in-hand when the rain had caught them.

Taiga paused halfway up the hill, catching his breath.

Maybe it was the climb.

Or maybe it was the weight of remembering.

The camera Hokuto once convinced him to use again hung around his neck.

It felt heavier than he remembered — or maybe it carried more than glass and metal now.

He carried it like an anchor. Like a promise.

When he finally reached the cliff, the world opened before him — the sea vast and endless, the sky burning gold against the horizon.

He stood there in silence, the weight of the past year pressing down like the thick summer air.

The world had kept moving, but his had stopped here — on this cliff where they watched the sunsets, where Hokuto’s train disappeared into the distance and took the sunlight with it.

His sunlight.

Taiga lifted the camera, staring through the viewfinder — but all he saw was the same sky, the same waves, the same emptiness.

He lowered it slowly.

“See?” he whispered into the wind.

“I came back, Hokuto.” He swallowed, his voice cracking.

“So… where are you?”

I miss you.

I miss you like crazy.

I’m here. Can you be here, too?

The words never made it past his throat. They stayed trapped inside, burning quietly.

The sea answered with a low, steady hum — like it had been waiting for him, too.

The wind shifted, brushing through the tall grass near the rocks where they always sat.

Taiga blinked hard, forcing the tears back before they could spill.

He sat down at his usual spot — the one that had always been his — and stared at the empty space beside him.

The one that should have been Hokuto’s.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the notebook.

Hokuto’s notebook.

Its corners were frayed now, the leather soft from use.

The first time Hokuto had handed it to him, Taiga had almost snapped — not in anger, but in despair. Accepting it meant believing that this might truly be their last time together. Even Taiga, who always tried to see the future clearly, didn’t want to face it. Hokuto had only smiled softly, as if he knew all along that the future was uncertain, and yet he wanted Taiga to be ready in case. To know his heart, even if he couldn’t say it aloud.

He’d said, “I want you to know what I feel… even when I can’t tell you.”

Taiga had gone to the bathroom afterward and cried for hours. He had felt guilty for making Hokuto bear the weight of his love. When he returned, Hokuto had been sitting on the bed, head leaning against the wall. Taiga had rushed to him, hugging him tightly. Hokuto had accepted it silently, caressing his head as if understanding everything without a word.

Everyone who falls in love is bound to this, Taiga thought.

Especially those who fall in love knowing there’s no future to hold onto.

After Hokuto left, Taiga hadn’t touched the notebook for weeks.

He couldn’t.

He would only stare at it, his tears falling until the leather darkened.

Because he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to open it — to face the pieces of Hokuto he wasn’t ready to lose.

The wind brushed his face again, grounding him back to the present.

He took a deep breath, opened the notebook, and flipped to the last page.

The last entry was smudged with tears — his, maybe Hokuto’s too.

He knew how hard it must’ve been for Hokuto to write those words, to prepare something like this.

Every page since the confession was filled with gratitude, shaky lines whispering,

“Thank you for letting me love you.”

Hokuto never failed to remind him how much their love meant — even when it was breaking him apart.

But as Taiga’s thumb brushed the inside cover, something new caught his eye.

He froze.

A small folded note was tucked inside, written in Hokuto’s careful handwriting.

He had never noticed it before.

It was like it had been waiting — meant to be found only now.

“Read this only when you come back to the town next summer.”

Taiga’s breath hitched. His heart began to pound painfully in his chest.

His fingers trembled as he unfolded the note.

The paper crackled faintly in the quiet.

And then, through the words — Hokuto’s voice came alive again.

Soft. Familiar. Devastatingly gentle.

Taiga,

If you’re reading this, it means you came back. Thank you.
I don’t know how much of me the world will still remember by now, but it means something — knowing you kept your promise.
I hope the town still smells the same. I hope the sky is still that color you love. I hope the sea still sounds like a heartbeat.
And I hope you’re still taking pictures.

If I could ask for one more thing… it would be that you live. Fully. For both of us.
Because I think, maybe, that’s what love is — leaving a piece of yourself behind, and trusting someone else to keep it alive.

So, if the camera is still around your neck — lift it now. Look at the horizon. Take one last picture for me.

That way, I’ll still be here.

— Hokuto

By the time Taiga finished reading, the words blurred together through his tears.

They fell hard, messy, unchecked — staining the letters as if trying to seal them deeper into the world.

“You idiot,” Taiga whispered, a shaky laugh breaking through the sobs.

“You knew I’d come back. You always knew.”

Hokuto had known.

He’d known Taiga would return to this town — that he would sit in this same spot, that he would one day find this note.

It was as if the words had been waiting for him all along, hidden until the world was quiet enough for him to hear them.

Just like Hokuto wanted.

Taiga pressed the note, the whole notebook — to his chest.

The ache was sharp, but sacred.

Below, the sea roared, steady and endless.

He lifted the camera again, his hands unsteady but certain this time.

“Alright,” he whispered, voice breaking.

“Then… this one’s for you.”

I kept my promise, Hokuto. I came back.

The shutter clicked — soft, final, like a heartbeat.

The night had settled fully now — a deep indigo sky spread over him, heavy with the scent of salt and coming rain. The waves shimmered faintly under the moonlight, breaking and folding in the same rhythm as his breathing.

Taiga walked down the narrow path that led toward the beach, the notebook still pressed to his chest — as if bracing his heart.

Sometimes the tears came without warning, slipping down his cheeks in silence. He didn’t bother to wipe them away. Maybe it was alright to mourn, just this once — to grieve the love that had never really left him.

Each step he took sank softly into the sand. The air was cooler here, quieter, yet every sound seemed to echo louder — the tide’s pull, the sigh of the wind, the whisper of cicadas from somewhere far inland. He had walked this path a hundred times before, but never had it felt this still. Never had it felt so empty.

He reached the edge of the shore and stopped, letting the water curl around his shoes. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the endless line where the sea met sky. It was the same view Hokuto once called a horizon that never judges — it just stays.

The memory of the past slipped in without warning.

Another evening, a week before everything ended — the air just as warm, the cicadas humming their summer song. Hokuto had caught him staring too long. His smile that night had been faint, fragile, but so painfully alive.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hokuto had murmured, half teasing, half pleading. “You’ll make me start wishing for things again.”

Taiga had laughed under his breath then, not knowing how deeply those words would carve into him later.

“What’s wrong with wishing?” he said.

“Because it makes leaving harder.” That was Hokuto’s quiet reply — and even now, a year later, the weight of it still lingered in Taiga’s chest. He could still remember the way his heart had dropped then, how he’d held Hokuto’s hand tighter, afraid someone might take him away.

The sound of the waves pulled him back to the present.

Taiga looked up at the sky again — same bruised shade of blue, same restless sea. The stars blinked faintly above, like they remembered too.

He whispered into the wind, barely audible. “And what’s wrong with wishing, anyway?”

The sea gave no answer, only the same rhythmic hush that had always filled the space between them. Taiga smiled bitterly, eyes stinging, his breath trembling through the chill. The tears welled up again.

Maybe Hokuto was right. Maybe wishing did make it harder.

But Taiga couldn’t help it — standing here, in the place where everything began and ended, he still wished anyway.

Even if I had one more wish left to make, I’d still choose you — every time.

Taiga didn’t even realize how he made it back to his studio. Everything felt hazy — the walk, the quiet, the air that still smelled faintly of salt.

It wasn’t until his phone wouldn’t stop vibrating on the table that he noticed the world again. Several missed calls. Dozens of unread messages.

He frowned, wondering why it had been so quiet earlier — then noticed the silent mode icon appearing at the top of the screen.

The phone buzzed again, and Juri’s name flashed across the display. Taiga sighed softly, knowing how persistent Juri could be, and answered.

“Taiga! Damn it, I called so many times. Are you okay?” Juri’s voice came through, half relief, half scolding.

Taiga shifted toward the window, staring out at the night beyond the glass. “I’m okay. I just didn’t realize my phone was on silent.”

“Good,” Juri exhaled, his tone easing. “Your parents called me earlier — asked if I could reach you. They must be worried sick.”

“Shit,” Taiga muttered, putting the call on speaker as he quickly typed a message.

I’m okay. I arrived by evening but didn’t realize my phone was on silent. I’ll stay at the studio tonight and come home tomorrow.

He hit send. His mother replied almost instantly — As long as you’re safe, that’s all that matters.

“Yeah, I told them,” Taiga said into the phone, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Juri.”

He could hear Juri sigh in relief on the other end. “Don’t mention it. Sorry I couldn’t come with you this time.”

“It’s fine. You shouldn’t apologize.” Taiga leaned against the wall, eyes softening. “Anyway, where’s your boyfriend?”

“Shintaro?” Juri’s voice immediately lightened. “He just got back an hour ago looking like death. Took a shower and passed out. But before that, he made me promise to wake him up the moment I got through to you.”

Taiga chuckled. “No need. Let him sleep. Tell him when he wakes up. Must be exhausting, working nonstop all week. I’m just glad you went with him this time.”

Juri snorted. “Can’t be helped. You know how he is… whines like a kid if I’m not around.”

Taiga laughed quietly. He could almost picture it. “You pretend to complain, but you like it.”

“Maybe,” Juri admitted, his voice softer now. “He drives me crazy sometimes, but… yeah. I’m glad I followed him too.”

Taiga’s smile lingered even after the call grew quiet for a moment. “You should rest too, Juri. Really.”

“I will. And you…” Juri’s tone shifted, gentle now, the way it always did when he worried. “Anything happens, call me, okay? I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Taiga said. “I know.”

When the call ended, the silence of the studio returned, but it felt less hollow this time.

He stood there for a while, staring at his reflection in the window.

Only the hum of the night remained — the faint buzz of the old refrigerator, the rain starting somewhere outside.

Taiga stared at his phone screen for a moment longer, the call log still glowing faintly.

He could almost hear Juri’s voice lingering in his head; warm, grounded, steady — the kind of voice that had pulled him back from the edge more than once.

More than anything, Taiga was grateful — that both his friends had found each other.

After countless rejections, Juri had finally given in to Shintaro’s persistence, and they’d made it official.

Now, Juri often followed Shintaro for his outstation work while part-timers managed his family cafe.

He set the phone down on the table and exhaled slowly.

The sound of rain against the window filled the quiet.

And for a moment, he just stood there — letting the calm settle, letting himself feel it.

But the silence didn’t stay soft for long. It began to echo again. The kind of quiet that never really left him since Hokuto was gone.

He turned toward the window, the glass blurred by faint reflections of streetlights, and whispered, almost to himself, “It’s been a year, Hokuto… and I’m still here.”

He didn’t know if it was confession or reminder.

Maybe both.

When Hokuto left, that summer had felt like the end of everything.

The first few months had been hell. His mother’s tears, his father’s worried eyes — but what broke him most was Juri and Shintaro’s quiet grief.

They had seen the worst of him. The empty days when he wouldn’t leave the studio. The nights when silence felt unbearable. They never forced him to talk, never demanded explanations. They just… stayed.

Sometimes Juri would drop by, pretending he needed Taiga’s help with something trivial. Other times, Shintaro would bring food and chatter about random things until Taiga cracked a small smile. The first time he laughed again, he startled himself. He hadn’t realized how foreign that sound had become. He’d thought he’d forgotten how to feel. And right after, he cried for an hour.

They never asked him to move on.

They made it a routine — gentle persistence, quiet company; keeping him alive one soft day at a time.

And only much later did Taiga learn why.

Hokuto had met them before he left.

He had gone to Juri and Shintaro, asking them — pleading with them — to look after Taiga when he was gone.

Juri had told him that months later, when Taiga was finally strong enough to hear it.

Taiga remembered breaking down completely that night, sobbing until his chest hurt. Because even when Hokuto was preparing to leave, he was still finding ways to make sure Taiga wouldn’t be alone.

That was just like him. Always thinking of others. Always loving quietly, completely.

After that, Taiga began to return to himself — slowly, clumsily.

He still couldn’t feel joy in anything he did, but the numbness wasn’t endless anymore.

And then, one evening, he remembered something Hokuto had said — one of the nights they’d spent together in the studio.

Hokuto had been tracing the edge of Taiga’s camera, smiling softly. 

“You know,” he’d said, “you look beautiful when you’re taking pictures. I can’t help but keep falling in love with you.”

Taiga, busy cleaning up after dinner, had turned to him with a faint smirk. “Then you’ll have to keep on living,” he said quietly, “so you can keep seeing me being beautiful.”

Hokuto laughed under his breath. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Taiga said, stepping closer. “But you’re the one who made me want to take photos again. You’re my reason, Hokuto. So I need you to keep going too.”

Hokuto’s eyes softened — warm, a little sad.

“I know,” he said. “But if someday I can’t…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “then I want you to keep going anyway.”

Taiga frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Hokuto said gently, “don’t stop doing what you love just because I’m gone. Take photos. Work again. Show people how you see the world.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers along the camera strap. “You have this gift, Taiga. You see things the way I never could — honestly, beautifully. I don’t want that light to go out with me.”

Taiga stared at him for a long moment, heart twisting. “Don’t say it like that,” he whispered. “Like you’re already planning to disappear.”

“You know I’m bound to,” Hokuto said softly, “I’m just… hoping that if I’m gone, you’ll keep living for both of us. And maybe, one day, you’ll fall in love with photography again — not because it reminds you of me, but because it reminds you that you’re alive.”

Taiga hadn’t answered then. He’d just stepped closer and kissed him — slow, desperate, wordless. That was his only reply.

Hokuto must have known how Taiga struggled — even when Taiga never said it aloud.

He always had this way of seeing through him, reading what Taiga couldn’t say.

And with that memory held close to his heart, Taiga had started going back to the city again a few months ago, taking small freelance jobs.

He wanted to keep Hokuto’s wish — to live, to create, to stay.

Maybe, deep down, a part of him still hoped that Hokuto might return one day.

Or that if he kept moving forward, maybe he’d meet him again somewhere — alive, healed, smiling under the same sky.

When Taiga decided to return to photography, everyone cried quietly. Grateful that he was finally doing what he loved again. He sometimes overheard them whisper, “It was Hokuto who changed him, when we couldn’t.”

Taiga never argued with that. Maybe it was true. When everyone else tried to reach him, he never answered.

But when Hokuto came into his life — maybe that was the reason he’d been searching for all along.

He started to enjoy working again. Not completely, not yet — but enough.

On those quiet days, when the world felt softer and the light hit just right, he’d whisper, 

“I’m still trying,” softly, to no one. “Are you proud of me, Hokuto?”

And somewhere, Taiga liked to believe, Hokuto was still listening.

That his own effort to keep living might reach Hokuto too — whether he was out there, fighting to come back, or already part of the stars above.

Taiga exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the window.

He whispered into the night, voice trembling,

“I’ll keep coming back.

Until I forget the sound of your voice.

Until the ocean stops reaching for the sky.”

He closed his eyes, the faint hum of the sea echoing in the distance.

“And maybe even then,” he whispered,

“Even then, I’ll still come.”

The town hadn’t changed much.

Even after two summers had slipped through his fingers, it was the same sleepy streets, the same stubborn sky, the same scent of salt and earth clinging to the air. The wind still curled around him like a ghost whenever he walked along the beach, whispering Hokuto’s name so softly, Taiga sometimes wondered if he’d only imagined it.

He didn’t cry anymore. Not the way he used to — loud and endless, like the waves breaking against the rocks. The grief had learned to settle inside him instead, quiet and constant. But he still came back. Every summer. Without fail.

Taiga sat by the rock on the cliff, staring out at the sea.

The clock edged toward noon.

On this day every year, whenever he missed Hokuto too much, he would always find himself here — as if some part of him still believed Hokuto would be waiting.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice nearly carried away by the wind.

“It’s been two years. You’d hate my haircut but you’d still insist I’m beautiful.”

A soft smile tugged at his lips.

“You’d love the new camera I bought. But I still carry the one that holds all our memories. And I still wear the hoodie you left behind. The one I told you to keep wearing… so I could still feel your warmth when you were gone.”

His smile wavered. His eyes shone.

He reached out, tracing his fingers over the rough surface of the rock beside him — the same place Hokuto used to sit. The air felt heavier for a second, almost like a heartbeat passing between them.

“I kept the promise, Hoku,” he murmured. “I always will. I still come here. I still pray that one day I’ll see you sitting here again.”

The pain wasn’t as sharp as before — not the open wound it once was.

But it was still there, steady as the tide. A quiet ache that had learned how to live inside him.

He stood and lifted his camera, taking a picture of the sunlight spilling over the sea. He smiled softly at the image on the screen.

It was enough — the kind of small peace that felt like breathing again.

Then he heard footsteps.

He didn’t turn. Not right away. This town had played tricks on him before — the sound of footsteps, laughter in the wind, echoes that sounded too much like hope. He had learned not to believe in ghosts. Not to hope too much.

The footsteps stopped behind him. And then a voice; rougher, older, but unmistakably real — spoke.

“You really kept your promise.”

The world stopped.

Taiga froze, his breath catching, his heart slamming against his ribs. Slowly — terrified to shatter the illusion, he turned.

And saw him.

Not the young man from that one summer, but now who had grown — thinner, paler, his face carved with exhaustion, his hair longer, messy from the wind. But his eyes… they still held that same warmth Taiga had memorized — the one he thought he’d never see again.

Hokuto. Alive. Crying.

Taiga’s knees nearly gave out. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The world blurred until there was only him.

“I almost didn’t come,” Hokuto said, stepping forward, voice shaking. “But I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

“How…?” Taiga’s words shattered. His throat closed around them. “You — I thought —”

“I was supposed to die,” Hokuto whispered. His hand lifted, trembling, then hesitated in midair. “But something worked. A surgery. A doctor who didn’t give up. And I got better. Slowly. But by then…” His eyes dropped, full of guilt. “I thought it was too late. That you’d moved on.”

“So you stayed away?” Taiga’s voice cracked.

Hokuto nodded, shame clouding his features. “I didn’t want to make you choose all over again.”

Taiga took a shaky step forward. Then another. Until he stood close enough to feel Hokuto’s breath. Without hesitation, he reached out, grabbed Hokuto’s hand, and pressed it firmly to his chest. Right over the place that had broken two summers ago.

“I would’ve chosen you,” Taiga said, voice fierce through his tears. “Again and again. I would’ve waited ten years if I had to. A lifetime, Hoku.”

That broke him. Hokuto’s face crumpled, tears spilling freely as he leaned into Taiga’s touch. And Taiga’s own tears finally fell — not the kind that tore him apart, but the kind that began to stitch him back together.

The kind that said: We made it.

They sank to their knees on the grass, arms wrapping around each other like they had never let go. Foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, the sea breeze curling through their hair as if it had been waiting all this time to welcome them back home.

“You came back,” Taiga whispered, voice shaking but sure.

“You kept the promise,” Hokuto whispered back, his smile trembling through the tears.

Below them, the waves kissed the shore. And for the first time in two summers, the wind no longer felt empty.

It felt whole. Like it had been holding its breath, waiting — just like Taiga, for this moment.

(Flashback)

Hokuto had been staring at the same crack in the ceiling for hours since returning to his room that morning.

Last night's confession still echoed in his chest — soft, trembling, reckless.

He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t meant to run, either.

But somewhere between the fear of losing Taiga and the guilt of wanting more, the words had slipped out.

Now they sat heavy in the air, pressing against his ribs.

His phone buzzed weakly on the side table. Kochi’s name lit up the screen — again. The third time that day.

Hokuto sighed and finally reached for it, his voice small when he answered.

“…Hey.”

There was silence for a second, then Kochi’s sigh came through the line — tired, worried.

“Finally. I’ve been calling you since morning. You’re not answering, I thought something happened again.”

“I’m sorry,” Hokuto murmured, closing his eyes. “I just… needed time to think.”

“Think about what?” Kochi asked, voice softening. “You sound worse, Hoku.”

Hokuto hesitated. His throat ached as he spoke. “I confessed to Taiga last night.”

There was silence on the line.

He forced a bitter laugh. “And he said he knew all along. He didn’t even get mad. Just… accepted it. Like it didn’t matter that I’m dying.”

He swallowed hard, his voice breaking.

“Yugo… he deserves better. Someone who can stay. Not someone who’s counting down the days.”

The other end went quiet for a while before Kochi finally spoke — gentle, steady.

“Hoku… you’ve spent your whole life trying not to burden anyone. But you can’t keep doing that forever. You’re human. You’re allowed to be loved. You’re allowed to be weak.”

Hokuto shook his head even though Kochi couldn’t see it. “But if I die, he’ll be the one who suffers. He doesn’t deserve that pain.”

“That’s his choice,” Kochi said softly. “You said he already knows, right? Then he’s already decided — to love you anyway. Don’t take that choice from him.”

Hokuto’s lips trembled. “I’m dying, Yugo. I don’t deserve anything.”

“Hokuto…” Kochi’s tone shifted — urgent, hopeful. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’ve been talking to some doctors I know. There’s a new team willing to take your case. The surgery’s risky… really risky, but there’s a chance. A real one.”

Hokuto blinked, heart stopping for a second. “Surgery?”

“Yeah. If it works, you could live. If not…” Kochi paused, the weight of it heavy between them. “But if not, at least you have tried. You’ll have chosen to live instead of waiting to die.”

Hokuto sat there in silence. The ticking clock on the wall was deafening.

The thought of Taiga flashed across his mind — his smile, his laughter, the way he looked at the world like it was still worth staying for.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he whispered.

“Then I’ll be there,” Kochi said simply. “And Taiga… he’ll be okay. Because you have given him something real to hold on to. Not regret — but love.”

Hokuto pressed his hand to his eyes, trembling. “Yugo…”

“Let me set it up,” Kochi urged. “If you want to try… we’ll start as soon as possible. You’ll need to come back to the hospital so we can work on the surgery preparation.”

Hokuto didn’t answer at first. His breath came out unsteady, but for the first time in months, there was something like light in it. He wanted to live, maybe not for him, but for Taiga.

“Alright,” he whispered finally. “But let me have this summer. Just this one. Let me stay with Taiga until the end. Then, I will come back.”

Kochi exhaled shakily on the other end, relief and sadness tangled in his voice. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Then when it’s time… I’ll be waiting.”

When the call ended, Hokuto stared at the ceiling again.

For the first time in so long, he let himself imagine a tomorrow — faint, uncertain, but alive.

As the days passed, summer had begun to thin at the edges — the air still warm, but the cicadas quieter now, the light turning softer.

That morning, Taiga had gone to visit his relatives after his parents insisted. He’d been reluctant to leave, worrying like he always did, until Hokuto reassured him with a small smile.

“I’ll be fine,” Hokuto said, brushing Taiga’s hair gently off his forehead. “Just go. I’ll still be here when you come back.”

It was the first time Taiga had left his side. Ever since that day on the cliff — the promise to spend the rest of summer together, Taiga hadn’t let him out of sight. And Hokuto hadn’t complained. He wanted to stay close too, to memorize every second.

When Taiga kissed him goodbye that morning, Hokuto waited until the sound of his footsteps faded before finally heading out himself. He needed to see someone — two people, actually.

The cafe was quiet when he arrived. The late-morning sunlight filtered through the windows, painting golden patches across the wooden tables.

Juri was behind the counter, wiping glasses when Hokuto stepped in.

“What do you want today, Hokuto?” Juri asked, glancing up with a faint smile.

“Your signature juice,” Hokuto said, smiling back. “And… can we talk later, when you’re free? Maybe call Shintaro too.”

Juri frowned slightly, his hand stilling mid-wipe. “That sounds serious. Should I be worried?”

Hokuto laughed softly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, nothing like that. Just something I want to say before summer ends.”

Juri studied him for a moment, clearly sensing something but not pushing. “Alright,” he said finally. “Shintaro’s out running errands, but I’ll call him over once he’s done. Just sit first.”

Hokuto nodded and took his drink to his usual seat — the same one he and Taiga often shared. He traced his fingers along the condensation on the glass, listening to the soft clink of cups behind the counter.

By the time Shintaro arrived, the cafe had emptied out. The air smelled faintly of citrus and roasted beans, and sunlight slanted high through the blinds.

“What’s with the sudden meeting?” Shintaro asked, pulling a chair next to Juri. 

Hokuto smiled faintly. “I just… wanted to thank you both.”

Juri arched a brow. “For what?”

“For being there,” Hokuto said simply. “For Taiga. For me.”

Both of them looked at him — puzzled at first, then uneasy.

“What’s going on, Hokuto?” Juri asked quietly. “You sound like you’re saying goodbye.”

Hokuto looked down, his hand tightening around the glass. “Not goodbye. Just… ” he paused, exhaling shakily, “... just do me a favor.”

Shintaro frowned. “What kind of favor?”

“If I leave… if something happens,” Hokuto said softly, “I want you two to look after Taiga for me. Make sure he doesn’t close himself off. You know how he gets. Stubborn, quiet, pretending he’s fine.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Juri’s brows drew together, his tone sharper. “What do you mean, if something happens? You’re leaving?”

Hokuto smiled faintly. “I’m bound to leave eventually. But Taiga still insists on loving me. So if I go later… I just want to make sure he’s not alone. That’s all.”

“Hokuto —” Shintaro started, but Hokuto cut him off gently.

“Please,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “Promise me.”

The sound of waves outside filled the space where words should’ve been.

Juri leaned back, exhaling deeply. He knew he wasn’t in a place to push further. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though his eyes glistened. “Fine. We’ll keep an eye on him. But you will come back, right? For Taiga, at least.”

Hokuto smiled. “I’ll try to.”

They talked a little longer after that — about nothing and everything. When it was time to leave, Hokuto stood and pulled both Juri and Shintaro into a quiet hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.”

When he stepped out of the cafe, the sea stretched wide before him. The wind tugged softly at his hair, carrying the faint scent of salt and sunlight.

For a long moment, he just stood there, looking toward the horizon.

“If I can’t stay,” he whispered into the breeze, “at least let them keep him safe.”

At least when he left, there would still be people to take care of Taiga.

At least Taiga wouldn’t be alone.

And maybe, Hokuto thought, that was enough.

The day he left Taiga behind was hell for Hokuto too.

The train lurched forward, the platform sliding away behind him.

Through the window, Hokuto could still see Taiga standing there — small, motionless, eyes red. He kept watching until the figure blurred into distance and sunlight, until the ache in his chest became unbearable.

Only when the town disappeared completely did he let go.

He pressed a hand against the glass, his reflection ghostly over the passing fields. The tears came quietly at first, then harder — the kind that made it impossible to breathe.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry until he was alone.

And now he was.

The rhythmic clatter of the train only made it worse — like a countdown, steady and cruel. Every mile that carried him away felt like it was tearing him apart, piece by piece.

He remembered Taiga’s voice before they parted, the way he’d said, “Stay.”

Hokuto bit down a sob. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the hum of the engine. “I just… can’t let you see me like this.”

Outside, the sunlight struck the fields too bright — burning, almost mocking the feeling of leaving behind everything he loved. His head started to throb again, sharp and dizzying. He leaned against the seat, eyes unfocused.

When the train finally screeched into the city station, his hands were trembling too much to lift his bag.

Kochi and Jesse were already waiting on the platform, scanning every passenger.

The moment Jesse spotted him, he froze. “Hokuto?”

Hokuto looked up, trying to smile — but the effort only made him sway.

Kochi was at his side in an instant, steadying him by the shoulders. “Damn, Hoku! You look like hell.”

Hokuto laughed weakly. “I made it,” he murmured. “To the end of summer.”

But his voice cracked halfway through. The laughter collapsed into a sob.

Kochi pulled him close, one hand on the back of his neck. “You did, Hoku. You did.”

Jesse hovered beside them, eyes glistening, unsure whether to speak or just hold him too.

Within minutes, Hokuto’s knees buckled. His breathing hitched, shallow and fast.

Kochi cursed under his breath and waved frantically at a passing staff. “Call an ambulance!”

The next moments blurred — sirens, light, hands gripping his shoulders. Jesse’s voice somewhere close, saying “Stay with us, okay? Don’t close your eyes.”

But Hokuto’s vision was already fading to white.

He thought he heard Kochi muttering, “You promised me you’d make it through this,” but the words tangled with the sound of the wheels rolling over the ground.

When he woke, everything smelled of antiseptic. The ceiling was too white, too bright. He could hear machines — slow, steady beeping — and muffled voices outside. Pain pulsed through his skull like waves.

Kochi appeared at his side moments later, exhaustion written all over his face.

“You scared the hell out of us,” he said, voice low but shaking. “They said your condition worsened on the way. You almost —” He stopped himself, swallowed hard.

Hokuto tried to smile, but his lips barely moved. “Guess I pushed too far. I wanted to make it to the end of summer with him.”

Kochi looked down, guilt flashing in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have risked it that much.”

“I know.” Hokuto turned his gaze toward the window. A sliver of sky peeked through, pale blue and infinite. “But I couldn’t let him see me dying.”

Silence stretched between them. The only sound was the quiet, steady beep of the monitor.

Jesse entered a few minutes later, holding two cups of coffee — one untouched. That simple sight reminded Hokuto of Taiga. He already missed him.

“You look worse than I imagined,” he said softly, setting the cup down. His eyes were red.

Hokuto laughed faintly. “Thanks for the honesty.”

Kochi rubbed his face tiredly. “They want to operate soon… as soon as they finish the last preparation and tests. Maybe in a few days. The tumor’s pressing harder than expected. It’s risky, Hoku. They don’t even want to promise anything.”

Hokuto’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Then he nodded. “Then let’s do it.”

“Are you sure?” Jesse asked quietly. “They said… it’s fifty-fifty. Maybe less.”

“I know,” Hokuto whispered. “But if there’s even a small chance, I’ll take it. I still want to live. For Taiga, at least.”

Kochi looked at him, eyes burning, jaw clenched. “Then we’ll stay. Both of us. You’re not going through this alone.”

Hokuto smiled weakly. “You two never listen, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you,” Jesse said, his voice cracking.

“My family?” Hokuto asked.

“I called them. They wanted to rush here, but I told them to take their time. Don’t worry — I’ll handle it,” Kochi said, holding Hokuto’s cold hand.

“Did Taiga know about your surgery?” Jesse asked hesitantly.

“No,” Hokuto said softly. “I don’t want him to hope for something uncertain. It’s cruel… even not leaving any way for him to reach me, but I can’t let him see me like this. That would only break him more.”

He knew how cruel it was to cut all contact — not just with Taiga, but with Juri and Shintaro too.

But if anything, he didn’t want them to see him fade. Especially Taiga.

He wanted them to remember the summer as something beautiful, not an ending in a hospital bed.

“It’s okay,” Jesse said quietly. “You’ve done your best, Hoku. You gave him happiness. Now let us take care of you. You’ll make it through this.”

Hokuto’s lips curved faintly. “I hope so.”

Kochi exhaled, then hesitated. “Before that… Hoku, I need to tell you something. If this surgery succeeds, there might still be side effects. Complications. It could change things — your movement, your speech… or even your memory.”

Hokuto stayed silent for a long time. He had already known this was possible.

He’d read about it after the first call with Kochi — the risks of brain surgery, how sometimes the mind rejects its own memories.

He had been preparing ever since.

Every night, while Taiga slept, Hokuto would quietly write everything down; every thought, every dream, every feeling — in his notebook.

Sometimes, he recorded little videos, or took secret photos of Taiga smiling, cooking, sleeping under the morning light.

He wanted proof of the life they’d shared — something to come back to, if his mind ever betrayed him.

Because what was the point of surviving if he couldn’t remember the person who made him want to live?

Finally, Hokuto nodded. “I know.”

He looked between his friends, his eyes glassy but calm. “If that happens… if I forget, help me remember. Especially about him. Please.”

Jesse and Kochi shared a glance, then nodded.

“We will,” Kochi said softly. “But right now, focus on surviving. Give it everything you have.”

Hokuto smiled faintly, his voice a whisper. “I will.”

The three of them shared a quiet, lingering hug — one that felt like both a promise and a goodbye.

The night before surgery, Hokuto barely slept. The hospital room was dark, save for the faint green glow of the monitor by his bed. The steady rhythm of his own heartbeat filled the silence.

He stared at the ceiling — that same white emptiness that had greeted him since he arrived and tried to memorize it. The way the fluorescent lights hummed, the faint smell of rain outside, the way the night nurse hummed under her breath while checking his IV.

Everything felt suspended. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting for morning.

He thought about Taiga. There was never a time he didn’t.

The way he’d laughed with his whole body. The way his eyes softened whenever he looked at him. The warmth of his hand. The sound of his voice saying “Stay.”

He wanted to hold on to that sound forever. He wanted to keep living — just so he could come back to Taiga again.

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he realized it. His eyes were already swollen, but he couldn’t stop. Maybe this would be the last time he cried for Taiga.

Maybe this would be the last time he remembered him.

He reached for the notebook resting beside him and began to write — quickly, desperately; everything he wanted to hold on to.

If he made it through, this would be his anchor.

His way back.

He turned to the page where a photo of him and Taiga was pasted — the one Taiga had given him after printing it out.

“Take this,” Taiga had said, smiling faintly as he handed it over.

“So you can keep looking for me when you’re gone. This is your reminder to come back.”

Hokuto traced his fingers over the photo — over Taiga’s face, over his beautiful smile — trying to burn it into his memory.

He prayed that even if his mind failed him, his heart would not.

You need to remember this, Hokuto. He told himself.

Remember this. Remember Taiga. You need to come back.

He whispered it like a mantra.

Again and again.

When Kochi and Jesse came in at dawn, he was still awake.

“You didn’t sleep?” Jesse asked, trying to sound casual, but his voice trembled at the edges.

Hokuto smiled faintly. “Didn’t want to waste any more time.”

Kochi adjusted the blanket around him, eyes tight. “The doctors are ready. It’ll take hours… maybe longer. But we’ll be here the whole time, okay?”

Hokuto nodded. “I know.”

His parents arrived soon after, holding his hands — eyes wet, voices quiet with prayer. They didn’t speak much, only whispered that they wanted him to come back alive.

When the nurse came to wheel him toward the operating room, Hokuto’s heart started to race.

The corridor lights passed above him one by one. He stared at them until they blurred together.

Just before the doors closed, he shifted his gaze back to Kochi and Jesse, who were holding his hands tightly.

“If I don’t wake up…” Hokuto whispered, voice shaking, “I just want to thank you — for being there for me. From the start, until now.”

He took a breath, his next words barely audible. “And if I die… please tell him I loved him. Right until the end.”

Kochi gripped his hand tighter. “You’ll wake up, Hoku. You hear me? You will.”

Jesse leaned closer, his eyes wet. “We’ll be right outside. Don’t you dare pull some dramatic goodbye.”

That made Hokuto laugh — soft, breathless. “No promises.”

As they rolled him away, he whispered under his breath, “Let me see the light again. Just one more time. Please… let me come back to Taiga.”

And then the doors swung shut.

The surgery lasted six hours. Or maybe seven. No one was sure anymore.

Everyone waited outside the operating room the entire time — pacing, praying, clinging to every passing minute like it could rewrite fate.

When the surgeon finally emerged, his face was unreadable.

“The operation was successful,” he said quietly. “We managed to remove most of the tumor. But he’s still critical. We’ll need to monitor him closely for possible complications. For now… let’s pray he wakes soon.”

Kochi exhaled shakily — half in relief, half in dread. Relief that Hokuto was alive. Dread, because no one knew what kind of life he’d wake to.

Jesse sank into a chair, hands covering his face.

Hokuto’s parents were crying in each other’s arms, thanking the doctor through tears. The doctor bowed slightly, adding, “You can see him once he’s transferred to the ICU.”

Days passed. Then weeks. Summer faded quietly into autumn. The leaves turned gold, then brown.

Hokuto remained in the ICU — motionless, pale, the rise and fall of his chest the only proof that he was still here.

He had passed the critical stage, but slipped into what the doctors called a minimally conscious state. The surgery had been done near a sensitive area of the brain — one that controlled both memory and movement. Recovery, they explained, was uncertain. Some patients woke up within a few weeks. Some never did.

Still, the doctors didn’t give up. They said his vitals were strong. That if his will to live was as strong as his body, he could make it.

Since Hokuto’s surgery was in the same hospital where Kochi worked, he immediately requested to be part of the nursing rotation for Hokuto’s case.

Whenever he had breaks, he would visit — reading aloud updates from the world, pretending Hokuto could hear him. Deep down, he believed he could.

Jesse came every night. Sometimes he brought music. Sometimes snacks he never ate. Most nights, he just sat by the bed, talking about nothing. Talking because silence was worse.

“Wake up, you idiot,” Jesse would whisper, voice cracking. “You’ve missed a lot of things. Please… just come back. Seasons passed. Don’t make us wait for another one.”

Still, Hokuto didn’t stir. 

Winter arrived — cold and sharp. The city lights outside the window glowed like distant stars. 

Kochi would adjust his blanket, whispering little updates as usual. Jesse sometimes cried quietly when he thought no one could hear.

And still, Hokuto slept.

Then, as spring crept back; soft, cautious — everything changed.

One morning, while doing his rounds, Kochi entered Hokuto’s room and froze. 

The machine’s rhythm had changed. A small movement; slight, barely there — fluttered beneath the blanket.

“Hoku?” Kochi whispered, stepping closer.

Hokuto’s fingers twitched. His lips parted. A soft sound escaped him — rough, broken, but real.

When his eyes finally opened, the light hurt. Everything was too bright, too unfamiliar.

Kochi was crying before he could even speak. “Hey, hey, easy… it’s me. You’re okay. You made it. You made it, Hoku.”

He pressed the call button for the doctor, voice trembling with relief. Between calling Jesse and Hokuto’s family, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Within the hour, everyone had gathered — crying, laughing, thanking the heavens.

There had been days when they’d almost lost hope, when they wondered if letting Hokuto go might end his suffering. But seeing him awake now, alive, breathing — they knew they’d done the right thing.

The doctor smiled gently after examining him. “He’s stable. Still very weak, but he’s through the worst of it. We’ll keep monitoring for side effects, but for now, let him rest. Matsumura-san,” he said, turning to Hokuto, “take it slow. Step by step, alright?”

Hokuto nodded faintly. His body felt heavy, his throat raw, his voice gone. So he only managed a small movement of his hand in reply.

The next morning, when Kochi returned during his rounds, Hokuto was awake again — his eyes clearer this time.

He struggled to speak, his lips barely moving. “How… long?” he whispered, the words cracking.

Kochi leaned closer. “You’ve been asleep for half a year. It’s spring already.”

Hokuto blinked slowly, turning his gaze to the window. Morning light spilled through the glass, soft and golden, washing over the trees outside.

He stared at it for a long time. Something inside him felt… missing. Hollow. Like a piece of himself had been misplaced.

But he didn’t yet know what it was.

The days that followed blurred together. The hospital room became Hokuto’s world — white walls, the smell of antiseptic, the steady rhythm of machines. He slept more than he was awake. Every sound felt too sharp; every movement, a reminder that his body was relearning how to exist.

He was alive, yes. But the world around him felt… incomplete. Like he had woken from a dream and left half of himself behind.

The doctors were gentle when they spoke to him.

“The surgery went as well as we could hope,” one of them said during his rounds, clipboard balanced in one hand. “You’ll need time to heal. We’ll start light physiotherapy next week to help your body recover strength.”

Hokuto nodded faintly, his gaze drifting toward the window where the light shimmered through the curtains.

The doctor hesitated before continuing. “As for your memory… it’s normal to feel disoriented for a while. There may be gaps… things that feel distant or unclear. Don’t force it. Let it come naturally.”

Hokuto only murmured a quiet okay. He didn’t have the strength to ask what he had forgotten. He just knew that something inside him was missing — an ache that had no name.

Rehabilitation began a week later. Simple things, at first — sitting up, standing for a few seconds, holding a cup without trembling. Each motion was exhausting, but he endured it quietly.

Kochi visited every morning, helping him stretch his arms and teasing him when he complained. “You’re stubborn as ever,” Kochi would say, grinning through tired eyes. 

Hokuto would smile faintly. “Take one to know one.” But he still did everything he was told.

Jesse came after his shifts ended, bringing small things — books, snacks, playlists he claimed were “for motivation”. Sometimes he’d play songs Hokuto didn’t recognize, but somehow, they felt familiar. The melodies tugged at something deep inside him — like the echo of a memory just out of reach.

One night, when Jesse was packing up to leave, Hokuto asked quietly, “Did I… forget someone?”

Jesse froze. He turned slowly, forcing a small smile.

“You forgot a lot of things,” he said gently. “But you’ll remember what matters most, okay?”

Hokuto nodded, though his chest ached without knowing why.

By the end of the month, his progress surprised even the doctors.

He could walk short distances without assistance now, though he still tired easily. They worried he might push himself too far, but Hokuto only smiled and said, “I’m fine. I can make it.”

Kochi came in one afternoon, holding something close to his chest. His expression was strange. Nervous, careful.

When Hokuto tilted his head questioningly, Kochi sighed and sat down beside him.

“You wrote this before the surgery,” Kochi said quietly, setting a worn leather notebook on the bedside table.

Hokuto stared at it — the same one he had seen in his dreams lately. He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing over the familiar texture.

“It’s yours,” Jesse added from the doorway. “You told us to give it back when you were ready.”

Hokuto opened it slowly. The pages smelled faintly of dust and salt.

There were words written in his handwriting — but they felt like they belonged to someone else.

He traced the ink with trembling fingers and read the first few lines aloud, barely a whisper — yet loud enough to shake him.

I wanted to see your smile again.
You were my reason to keep living.

He turned the pages carefully. The name Taiga appeared again and again.

Every word felt like a ripple through his chest — a memory flickering to life in fragments: laughter, sunlight, the sound of waves.

His hand trembled as he touched the photograph tucked between the pages — a picture of two boys by the sea, smiling into the wind.

And just like that, the ache inside him sharpened into something real. Tears slipped down his cheeks before he realized it.

He didn’t remember everything. Not yet. 

But his heart did.

By the time summer returned, Hokuto was walking again.

The hospital had discharged him in late May, though he still came back twice a week for checkups and rehabilitation. His steps were steady now, but his mind still felt like an unfinished puzzle — pieces missing, edges blurred.

He stayed with his parents for a while. Their house smelled faintly of disinfectant and lavender, everything too neat, too careful. Every morning, sunlight poured through his bedroom window, warm and golden, and each time, Hokuto felt that strange ache again.

Something about the light reminded him of someone.

When Hokuto finally returned home, both Kochi and Jesse continued to visit every weekend. One afternoon, they arrived carrying a small box. Inside it was his phone.

Hokuto blinked in surprise. “I didn’t even think to ask about it.”

Kochi scratched the back of his neck, avoiding his gaze. “It’s not that I wanted to hide it from you. But the doctor advised keeping you away from things that might push your memory too fast. And knowing how stubborn you are…” He trailed off with a small sigh. “I thought it was better to wait until you were ready.”

Jesse nodded in agreement. “We didn’t want you to hurt yourself trying to remember everything all at once. So… yeah, go ahead and be mad at us, but we stand by it.”

Watching his friends’ guilty faces made Hokuto swallow the flicker of frustration that rose inside him. How could he be angry at the people who had always put him first?

“No,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I understand. Thank you… for being patient with me.”

They both smiled — relieved, a little teary; and left the phone on his bedside table before leaving for the night.

For a while, the phone just sat there. Sometimes Hokuto would glance at it, but the fear of facing whatever was inside kept his hands still. He didn’t know what waited for him there — what version of himself, what pieces of a life he’d forgotten.

When it became too heavy, he would reach instead for the notebook — the one Kochi had returned to him weeks earlier and flip through the pages again and again.

Each word was like a tiny spark, familiar yet distant.

Taiga.

The name still felt heavy on his tongue, as if his heart remembered before his mind could. Hokuto couldn’t recall who Taiga really was — only the face in the photograph, soft and bright, smiling at something beyond the frame.

He assumed that must be him. The person he’d written so much about.

It took him days to finally unlock the phone.

When he did, his pulse stuttered. There was a folder in the gallery titled “Taiga.”

He hesitated before opening it.

The first few photos were simple — small, quiet moments. A man standing by the sea, his back to the camera. Another sitting under a tree, light scattered across his shoulders.

Even though the man wasn’t looking at the lens, Hokuto felt something twist inside his chest — recognition without memory, longing without reason.

He swiped to the next pictures.

Taiga behind the cafe counter, laughing.

Taiga watching the stars at the beach.

Taiga asleep, sunlight tangled in his hair.

Each one felt like being hit by a memory he couldn’t fully grasp.

Then came the videos.

He hesitated again, his thumb trembling over the play button. He clicked on the first clip.

The screen showed Taiga sleeping, and a quiet whisper behind the camera — Hokuto’s own voice.

“You look peaceful… I don’t want to leave yet.”

Another clip showed Taiga from behind, struggling with cooking, Hokuto’s laugh faintly audible in the background.

By the time the videos ended, Hokuto’s face was wet. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. His chest ached so deeply he could barely breathe.

But even through the tears, the memories stayed hazy — fragments of emotion without clear edges.

He reached for his pen, flipped to an empty page at the back of the notebook, and began to write — fast, messy, desperate:

Why can’t I remember your face?
Why does the sea feel like home?
Why does it hurt when I dream of summer?

He read the same pages over and over until the ink began to smudge beneath his fingertips.

The words didn’t bring Taiga back — not yet.

But they kept him close enough to reach for.

It was nearly the end of June when Kochi insisted on hosting a small celebration at his house — both Jesse’s and Hokuto’s birthdays.

He’d just come off a hellishly busy week at the hospital and finally had a few days off, so he’d declared, “Let’s have a party like old times. Easier to feed two idiots at once. I’ll cook plenty.”

The living room smelled faintly of citrus and grilled food. The three of them sat cross-legged around the low table, plates already half-empty. Jesse was showing off the terrible handwriting on their birthday cake.

“You seriously wrote this yourself?” Hokuto asked, squinting at the lopsided frosting letters.

“Of course,” Jesse said proudly. “It adds character.”

Kochi snorted. “It adds trauma.”

They all laughed — loud and genuine. It felt good. For a moment, Hokuto let himself believe things were normal again.

Later, after their small celebration and a dinner that left them too full to move, Jesse played a playlist he’d made for the occasion. Music filled the quiet space.

Hokuto leaned back against the couch, glancing toward the window where dusk had already settled. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of rain.

Jesse noticed his silence. “Hey, you okay?”

Hokuto nodded absently. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

But as another song started — a soft guitar line under a familiar hum — his fingers went still around the glass he was holding.

He knew this song. He knew it. He just didn’t know why. Or where he’d heard it before.

A flash: sunlight against water. A voice laughing. A hand brushing his hair away.

It was gone before he could hold onto it.

“...Hokuto?” Kochi’s voice was gentle now.

Hokuto set the glass down too quickly, spilling a bit on the table. He pressed his palms to his temples, breathing unevenly.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I just — I don’t —”

He tried to swallow it down, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. The laughter from earlier dissolved into a heavy quiet.

“Hoku…” Jesse whispered, shifting closer.

“It’s stupid,” Hokuto said suddenly, tears welling in his eyes. “It’s been months, and I still can’t remember him. I keep trying. I read the notebook, I look at the photos, I watch the videos — but the moment I reach for it, it’s gone again. I can’t connect the missing piece.”

He let out a strangled laugh that broke halfway through. “I can remember how I felt. I can remember loving him. But I can’t even see his face in my mind. Even with all the pictures, when I close my eyes… I can’t hold onto him.”

Kochi moved beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing enough, Hoku.”

“No, I’m not!” Hokuto snapped, voice cracking. “He must’ve waited for me. He must’ve believed I’d remember him, that I’d come back and I can’t even give him that. What kind of promise is that worth?”

Jesse’s eyes glistened. “He wouldn’t want you to hate yourself for trying.”

Hokuto covered his face with his hands, the sobs finally escaping. His voice came muffled through his fingers.

“I don’t hate myself. I just… hate that I forgot the only person I swore I’d never forget. The reason I wanted to keep living.”

Kochi pulled him into a hug, tight and wordless. Jesse leaned close, rubbing small circles on Hokuto’s back. None of them spoke for a long time.

When Hokuto’s breathing finally slowed, Kochi said quietly, “You’re remembering in the only way you can — with your heart first. The rest will follow when it’s ready.”

Hokuto didn’t answer. He just nodded weakly, wiping his eyes.

The song on the speaker faded into another one — a melody that sounded like summer. Hokuto glanced toward the window again, watching the night blur with the faint reflection of candlelight.

“Then I’ll wait,” he whispered. “Until it all comes back. And I hope by then… it’s not too late.”

A few months had passed. The seasons had changed. Winter had come to an end, and the snow that blanketed the streets had slowly melted. Spring was slowly making its way as the flowers began to bloom. By then, Hokuto could finally manage on his own, completing his daily routines without much help. He had improved.

During that time, he kept tracing every memory he had left behind. Sometimes, frustration overtook him, and he would go feral with anger at his own forgetfulness. During hospital visits, his doctor would remind him that pushing too hard could strain his recovering brain. There were nights when Hokuto would return home and silently cry himself to sleep. Other times, he would wake early, retracing everything from the start, relentless in his effort, never tiring.

One night, Hokuto dreamed of waves crashing against the shore — the same rhythm as his heartbeat. He dreamed of laughter — soft and bright; and the feeling of someone’s hand slipping into his, warm and certain.

When he woke, he was crying. He didn’t know why, but for the first time, he whispered the name out loud.

“Taiga.”

Something deep inside him — quiet, long dormant — began to stir. It was the first time he woke with Taiga’s name spilling naturally from his lips, after months of struggling to imprint Taiga’s face into his memory. Day by day, he slowly began to piece together the fragments of his missing past.

And then it all hit him at once. The laughter, the sunlight on the water, the feel of Taiga’s hand in his. The whispered words, the promises made that summer — every fleeting moment, every heartbeat. His chest ached with the weight of it all, tears blurring his vision.

He remembered the promise on the cliff, the way Taiga had looked at him. The words that had once seemed impossibly light now pressed heavily in his mind, “Then you need to keep living, so you can keep seeing me being beautiful.”

He whispered the name, almost afraid it would vanish if spoken aloud. Taiga…

Hokuto clutched the notebook tightly, pressing it to his chest as the flood of memory overwhelmed him. For months, he had lived with fragments, with hints and shadows, and now — everything was here. Every laugh, every touch, every soft confession returned. He could see it all vividly, hear it, feel it.

And yet, as the joy swelled, fear crept in.

He looked toward the window, as if imagining the town he had left behind. He remembered the path to the cliff, the cafe where Taiga always waited for him. And then the thought hit again like a blow. What if Taiga had changed? What if he couldn’t love him the same way anymore? What if returning meant forcing Taiga to choose, risking being hurt again?

Hokuto pressed his face into the notebook, heart hammering. Maybe… maybe it’s better to stay away. Maybe he’ll be happier if I stay in the shadows. Maybe… I don’t deserve this.

He shook his head, trying to silence the panic, but it wouldn’t stop. His breath came in shallow bursts. His legs felt like lead. The thought of stepping back into that town, into the life they had shared, made his chest tighten as if it were squeezing out the memories themselves.

Hokuto didn’t notice Kochi and Jesse standing quietly at the door. Kochi’s voice came softly. “Hoku…”

Hokuto didn’t look up. He couldn’t. “I… I can’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I remember everything… but I’m scared. What if I ruin it all? What if I make him choose again? What if I can’t… be the person he waited for?”

Kochi stepped closer, hands gentle on his shoulders. “Hoku, look at me. You’ve survived everything — the surgery, the coma, the months of recovery. You’re here. You remember. That’s already more than most could hope for.”

“But… what if he doesn’t want me anymore?” Hokuto said, shaking his head. “What if I come back and it’s all gone?”

Jesse appeared beside him, voice soft but firm. “You’re scared. That’s normal. But the memories aren’t a burden, Hoku. They’re proof. Proof of why it’s worth going back. You loved him before, you love him now — and that doesn’t just disappear.”

Hokuto swallowed hard, tears streaming freely now. “I… I don’t know if I can face him. What if I’m not enough?”

Kochi squeezed his shoulders. “You’ve carried him in your heart all this time. That’s enough. That’s why you’ll be enough. You just have to be brave enough to take the first step.”

He looked at them both, fear and hope warring in his eyes. For months, he had waited — afraid to forget, afraid to remember. And now, he remembered everything. But to act on it… to step back into Taiga’s world… that was a different kind of courage.

Finally, Hokuto exhaled, a shaky, quiet sound. “I… I’ll try,” he whispered. “I’ll try to go back… to him. Next summer.”

Jesse nodded, voice cracking slightly. “We’ll be with you, every step.”

“And when you’re ready,” Kochi added, “we’ll help you see him again. Not force it, not rush it. Just… when the time is right.”

Hokuto closed his eyes, clutching the notebook like a lifeline. His heart pounded with longing and terror. But somewhere beneath the fear, a small spark glowed.

One day, he would return. One day, he would see Taiga again. And he would make sure that when he did… he wouldn’t let go.

(Present)

They had settled on the rock they always sat on that one summer, the same place where so many memories had begun. Hokuto recounted everything he had gone through, letting the words spill out like waves.

Taiga listened silently, save for the occasional breath or sniffle, letting Hokuto’s story fill the spaces between the crashing waves. Tears streaked his cheeks, and Hokuto found himself brushing them away without thinking — only to realize that his own eyes were wet as well.

“I… I kept trying,” Hokuto continued, voice trembling, “even when I hated myself for forgetting. Even when I thought I couldn’t do it… I just wanted to see you again.”

Taiga’s hand lifted to Hokuto’s cheek, tracing gentle circles. “Thank you… for coming back,” he whispered.

Hokuto leaned closer, pressing his forehead against Taiga’s. The memories — lost and found, fractured and whole — wrapped around him like the wind itself. He could see everything again: the cliff, the sunlight dancing on the water, the quiet evenings, the laughter, the warmth of Taiga’s hand in his. Every moment they had shared returned, delicate and sharp, filling the spaces that had been empty for so long.

And still, beneath the joy, a flicker of fear lingered — the fear that returning might somehow change everything, that the Taiga he remembered might not be the same, that love could demand another choice. But Taiga’s hand on his cheek, his steady breath, and the certainty in his eyes were all the answer Hokuto needed.

“I… I’m here,” Hokuto whispered, voice breaking. “I’m really here.”

Taiga smiled through his tears, pressing his forehead to Hokuto’s. “And I’ll never let you go again.”

The waves crashed below them, steady and eternal. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, everything felt right.

The waves continued their steady rhythm below, the sun dipping closer to the horizon. Hokuto and Taiga stayed like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, letting the wind and the salt air wrap around them.

After a few moments, Hokuto pulled back slightly, still holding Taiga’s hands. “We should… go back,” he said softly, though neither of them wanted to leave the cliff.

As they descended the path toward the town, voices carried up the hill — familiar, warm. Kochi, Jesse, Juri, and Shintaro were waiting, small smiles on their faces, eyes glistening in the late afternoon light.

“We all coincidentally ended up here while thinking of checking on you. Yugo’s been pacing like crazy — though you might have passed out,” Jesse said, and Kochi gave him a slow, playful slap on the shoulder.

“I was just worried,” Kochi added, his smile soft and reassuring.

“And coincidentally, Juri and I were walking back from the beach when we bumped into these two! Taiga! Remember that time I fell down the stairs? The nurse who treated me is right here — Kochi!” Shintaro said, pointing with exaggerated excitement.

“And we learned that both of them were Hokuto’s friends, so we decided to come together,” Juri added, finishing the story of how the four of them ended up there.

Hokuto froze for a moment, heart hammering. He wasn’t sure if he could face Shintaro and Juri yet, but Taiga’s hand squeezed his, grounding him. “Don’t worry. They’re not mad at you,” Taiga whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Hokuto’s forehead.

When they reached the group, Jesse’s grin was wide, relief shining in his eyes. “Finally! Took you long enough to come back!” he joked, and the others chuckled along, the sound ringing light and free in the evening air.

Hokuto felt the weight of everything he’d endured lift slightly, replaced by a lightness he hadn’t felt in a long time. He noticed how the golden light caught Taiga’s hair, how the waves below mirrored the rhythm of their laughter, and how the town hadn’t changed — it had been waiting for him.

Taiga leaned into him, resting his head lightly against Hokuto’s shoulder, smiling softly. “See? You weren’t alone. And you never will be.”

Hokuto looked at all of them — his friends, Juri and Shintaro, anchors through every storm — and felt a warmth spread through his chest. The world hadn’t changed. It had been waiting for him, just like Taiga. And now, he was finally ready to step back in, not alone, but with everyone he loved by his side.

That night, the town was quiet again — the same soft hum of crickets, the same salt in the air. The stars hung low, scattered like memory fragments stitched back into the sky.

Hokuto and Taiga sat outside the small inn where Hokuto was staying, two cups of tea cooling between them. The sea breeze brushed against their skin, carrying the faint echo of waves.

Neither of them spoke for a while. They didn’t need to. The silence between them was full; not of absence, but of everything they had found again.

Taiga leaned against Hokuto’s shoulder, voice barely above a whisper. “You know… it feels like that summer never really ended.”

Hokuto smiled faintly, watching the horizon where the ocean met the night. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe we just took the long way back.”

A soft laugh slipped from Taiga’s lips. “You always know how to make things sound poetic.”

“I learned from someone,” Hokuto said, turning slightly to meet his eyes. The starlight reflected there, gentle and sure.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Hokuto reached out, brushing his thumb along Taiga’s cheek — the same way he used to, memorizing the warmth like it might fade again.

“I thought I lost this,” he murmured. “The sound of you breathing next to me. The way the night feels when you’re here.”

Taiga took his hand, threading their fingers together. “You didn’t lose it,” he said quietly. “You just had to find your way home.”

Hokuto’s throat tightened. He nodded slowly, resting his forehead against Taiga’s. The world around them fell away; only the sound of the waves and their shared heartbeat remained.

When Taiga finally spoke again, his voice was soft, trembling with contentment. “Welcome home, Hokuto.”

And under the same sky that once watched them break and heal, Hokuto closed his eyes, letting the quiet wrap around them — the summer wind, the sea, and the love that had waited patiently for its return.

End.