let’s not drag this out
 

He leans one side against the headboard of the bed, dark eyes studying me, silent. My face is downcast. A lingering summer breeze strains itself through the window and is thrust away from me by the fan blowing in my direction, a soft whir in the otherwise austere silence. The small apartment feels large, empty, heartless. My breathing is shallow.

“You already know what we’re going to talk about,” he says lowly, and my hands clench the fabric of my shorts, pain shooting up from the bandage on one of them. Why had I chosen to wear khaki today? He always said blue looked better on me. I feel like I’m suffocating. It’s too hot in here, but the sweat is cold on my forehead. My stomach tightens.

“Yes,” I force out between my frozen, burning lips. I always knew, always expected, but always hoped against hope that this day would never come. What am I to him? What am I to anyone? What happens when somewhere you find meaning in your meaningless life and then it is torn away, torn apart like an undesired valentine?

“Please don’t make this any harder than he has to be.” His voice is so composed, so collected, so undeniably cold. I raise my eyes to his feet and see his dress shoes and long pants. Am I underdressed? Wasn’t I always?
 

everything’s in motion
 

“No, I understand,” I say, and am surprised at the calm in my voice. “We all do what we have to do.”

He does not take my words at face value, and sighs, dropping onto the bed that we had shared for four years, the bed in which we had slowly become men together, to the world, and to our families, and the bed in which I wept silently and held him when he slept, because I knew that today would have to come. I’m surprised he gave me the summer.

“Mitsuru, I told you from the beginning,” he says, weary. “It’s not like I’m springing this on you.”

“I understand,” I repeat, as if I actually will understand the more times I say it. “You can’t expect me to be so happy right away.”

He is silent a long moment, and I dare to raise my face to his, but he does not meet my eyes. “The truck is coming tomorrow at ten. That’s when I am leaving. I expect you to call.”

“Of course.” I’m on the tracks, and the express train from Tokyo to Hiroshima is flying towards me, but I can’t move, and I’m about to be torn to pieces. I can’t move and I can’t stop it, and my world is about to come crashing down around me.
 

though I’ve only ever loved you
 

He stands to leave and the room seems to get colder. The sun is setting without the customary aplomb. I rise as well, nausea clawing its way into my stomach. How could he do this? After I had given him everything, how could he just walk away like it was nothing? He turns and is going towards the door, away, away from me, and all I can do is gasp as my shell cracks.

Dark surprised eyes glance back to me and a frown flickers over his features. “Mitsuru…”

I shut my eyes and sink to the floor, my breath coming in hard sharp gasps like labor. I press my eyes to my knees, forcing the world out, keeping the tears in. How could he do this to me? If I had cheated on him, I could understand. If I had worked more than I had been with him, I could understand. If I had ever even looked at anyone else, I could understand. But it was only ever him, could only ever be him, and he was killing me.

I hear the soft click of the door to the room click as he exits. He’s probably disgusted with me. I don’t blame him.

Maybe this is why.
 

kind and with devotion
 

Maybe being weak was like being cruel. Maybe I hurt him that I wept for us. But he had never looked down on me before for crying, and always held me and pressed his lips to my hair, and told me he loved me, that he would always love me no matter what came, no matter what happened between us. Was everything he said a lie, so unimportant that a single word from his heartless monster of a father could break our bond? Were we always together so intangibly? Was it always just my imagination that he could love me the same way I loved him?

Of course I was never perfect. Only he was. I forgot anniversaries sometimes, and once his birthday, but it wasn’t just because I wanted to. I just forgot because I’m stupid, because sometimes things like that just happen to me. But I loved him, I always made sure I told him I loved him. And I respected him. I would never hold his hand in public or feed him when we went out for ice cream. It bothered me, but it was what he wanted, so I always did it.

My eyes only ever looked to him. I would have forgotten my family for him. I would have killed for him.

How could this be happening to us?
 

I remember when I met you and even from the start
 

The first night I had admitted to caring about him a little more deeply than I would have as a friend, he gave me a warning, a frightening, discouraging warning. But it was so quickly forgotten as he pressed his mouth over mine, and we tumbled backwards in a tangle of limbs and lips. I knew then that I just wanted to hold him forever, to love him forever, and thought if I loved him hard enough that I could accomplish that. At the same time my mind protested that I was sixteen, that I could never understand forever, but my heart rallied, flinging out that if I loved him well enough, it could be forever, no matter what happened.

Oh, god, it would be forever.

Six years. Six years cannot match forever. Six years is a feint into forever.

But he had told me in the beginning that it would be this way. I could never say that he wasn’t fair.
 

I thought one day you’d probably just come home
 

Had today been any different from any other day? I had arrived first from my newspaper job as always, put my keys on the hook, slipped off my shoes, and headed into the kitchen to prepare supper. I was singing, a little flat and off-key, and stirring the soup and waiting for the noodles to boil. I wasn’t the best cook, but strangely I was better than he was. I was still singing, mulling over what I had gotten him for our anniversary in three weeks, that I was proud I had remembered beforehand, when he opened the door.

I turned to greet him, looking goofy as usual in my apron and the silly cook hat I always wore at the stove. We had gone to a live showing of Iron Chef, and of course, I needed a hat too. He had bought it grudgingly, but I made good use of it. “Hello, Shinobu!” I sang to the tune of whatever I had been singing the moment before.

The look in his eyes stopped me abruptly, like turning and suddenly coming face to face with a fence. “Hello, Mitsuru,” he said quietly, and then went into out room to change out of his business suit, like he always did. The fact he had not given me a greeting kiss or even a smile was not what frightened me, but the air around him, the cold silence. I knew.

I couldn’t sing as I was finishing the meal.
 

and break my heart
 

He returned from the bedroom, clad in almost what he had worn to work, starched like iron, and sat at the table.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I said, my voice low and worried. Perhaps something serious had happened at work, but even as I thought it, I knew it was false.

“Thank you,” he replied. His hands were folded in his lap and his eyes were watching me, studying me coldly. Even in front of the stove in the dying summer’s lingering warmth, I shivered.

I poured two portions of soup, two sets of noodles, two of chicken, set them on the table, then went to the refrigerator and set out two cups of cold tea. I seated myself slowly, like an old man, then suddenly started up. “Silverware! How silly of me!” I felt wrong, like everything normal about me was oozing away to reveal this half-man thing I had always pretended I wasn’t. I set the silverware down in front of both our plates, then moved into my chair again.
 

it’s funny what you know
 

“It looks excellent,” he said quietly, and I gazed up from my plate, which just looked all right to me, to his eyes, which had never been looking at the plate at all. He must had seen the fear in my face because his eyes darkened.

“Thank you,” I replied, and took up a fork. I stabbed a piece of chicken and forced it down my throat, swallowing hard. “Was work difficult today?”

“No more than usual.”

“Ah.”

When you’re dead, it must be silent all the time.

We tried to end it this time by both speaking at once, which only succeeded in both of us silencing again.

“Go first, please,” I said quietly, fearing I didn’t have the strength to meet his gaze.

He was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if he was gathering his own strength. “Mitsuru.”

I lifted my head, and my eyes went with it.

His eyes were dark, fierce, powerful, and I wanted to shrink back, but at the same time they held me as physically as if his hand had grasped my chin.

“I’m getting married before Christmas.”
 

and still go on pretending
 

I can’t account for the time immediately after this. Maybe I choked on my food, maybe I returned to eating, maybe I smiled and said: Congratulations, Shinobu, I’m glad you found someone you like fucking better than me.

I’m fairly sure I did something clever like blink and stare at him, swallow the food in my mouth, carefully set down the silverware, and stand. I think he would have spoken my name here, probably surprised and maybe a little worried. I would have given him a bright smile, false like Christmas tree lights, but real and there, like his wedding date, and moved to the sink to do the dishes.

Again, his voice, almost warning. “Mitsuru…”

“How old is she, Shinobu? Is she pretty?” I would have kept my hysteria in check by force, or maybe by biting my tongue so hard it bled.

“She’s nineteen. She’s very beautiful.”

“And intelligent? I’m sure she’s smart. I bet she doesn’t forget birthdays.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“And perfect, I bet. Probably with a smile that lights up the whole perfectly fucking decorated house.” I washed the dishes frantically. “A virgin too, right?”

“I’m sure.”

“And rich? Her dad owns some big fucking company so rich that your dad said, well, my Shinobu’s old enough marry, and time for me to retire anyway!”

“Yes.”

It was about then I was washing the knife that it slipped and gashed my hand. I stared at it a minute in shock. “Shit.” I dropped the blood-soaked sponge in the sink and moved quickly towards the bathroom, locking myself in, sinking slowly onto the toilet seat.

I chose not to bandage my hand because I couldn’t bandage my eyes.
 

with no good evidence you’ll ever see that happy ending
 

I don’t know how long I stayed in the bathroom, only that the sun had been much higher in the horizon when I had entered. I don’t recall him knocking or even saying anything through the bathroom door. I do remember coming out of my trance-like state and seeing the pool of blood that would be sure to stain the tiles unless I cleaned it up immediately.

I probably should have gone to the emergency room and gotten stitches, but I was certain it would heal. It did not heal as quickly as my face, but the rest of my body was not far behind. I pulled some bandages out of the medicine cabinet, washed up my hand, and taped them on tightly to staunch blood flow. I pulled my towel off the rack and started mopping up the blood with it.

My cheeks felt itchy and tight, but my eyes were dry. When I finished scrubbing, I hung the bloodied towel back where it had been, bunched together, careful not to touch his with it.

I tossed water onto my face, trying to erase tear tracks, hoping if I got rid of them they’d stay away forever. But forever was such a faulty concept. I dried my face on his towel, then smoothed it out to look as if I had never been there.
 

you were looking for your distance
 

I stepped out of the bathroom, but he wasn’t there. I wandered to the kitchen and saw that my food had disappeared and that the bloody mess in the sink had been cleaned up. He must have half-expected to see a finger in there with all the blood. I pressed a cold hand to my forehead, feeling lost. There were only two more rooms in the apartment, but I was afraid to go look for him. What if he had left already?

I moved towards the living room and saw him, sitting, back to me, on the sofa, flipping through a magazine. I watched for a few moments, brows pulled down by hurt and fear and longing. He must have known I was there. He must have.

His voice was soft when he spoke, almost gentle. “I truly am sorry, Mitsuru. I did not want to hurt you.”

I noted his use of the past tense with a bit of irony. “How can I resent you? You gave me fair warning, six years ago.”

He sighed and set down his magazine, but did not turn to me. His hair looked freshly combed. I wanted to go touch it, to feel it between my fingers. In a sudden panic, I realized I had forgotten exactly what his hair felt like.

“I wish there was some better way to go about this,” he murmured.
 

and sensing my resistance
 

Fear bit the back of my throat, but I could not let this opportunity go by unnoticed. I stepped into the room and slid onto the couch beside him. I felt him looked toward me, surprised, but I would not let that stop me. I turn my eyes to him, knowing exactly how beautiful and powerful they could be. “Then don’t,” I said, quiet and simple.

“You don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t understand. You are your own person; you don’t have to let them control you.” I was full of righteous indignation, the wrath of God.

He closed his eyes, looking older than I had ever seen him look before. “Mitsuru…”

It was then I seized his lips with mine, claiming my territory from a girl I had never laid eyes upon, whose name I did not even know. I kissed him desperately, hungrily, needily, as if I kissed him sweetly enough that he would forget everything but me.

He pulled away and slapped me instead.
 

you had to do your will
 

Angrily, he stood, and I cowered. “Mitsuru, you have no right.” He stalked out of the room like a cat with its hackles raised.

I dropped my head into my hands. Was our last kiss to be some violent transgression forced on him by me and my weak will?

Probably.

From the bedroom I heard him call. “Mitsuru. When you want to talk to me as a civilized person, I will be in here.”

Like a child relegated to the corner, I sat and fretted and cried a little. What gave him the right to talk down to me?

But, of course, I had to go in when I was calm.
 

I had to learn the hard way
 

I felt awkward knocking on the door to my own bedroom, but I did not want to enter unannounced. “Come in,” commanded his voice from the other side of the oak. I had no choice but to obey him, as he had no choice but to obey his father.

“Sit down, Mitsuru,” and he gestured with a free hand the chair at the desk. His other hand was pulling his coupled socks out of his drawer and placing them carefully in a bag. Had all of his socks always been white?

I turned on the fan as I passed it, then sat, dizzy, my hand seizing the cuff of my shorts. It had always been hotter in this room than in any of the others because it faced the west. Today was no exception. I lowered my eyes, trying to maintain the calm I was desperately clinging to.

Had he moved some of his things out without me noticing? The room was markedly devoid of his belongings, his picture frames, his books, and now his clothes. Had he done this just now? Maybe when I was in the bathroom? Was I so easy to clear from his life just by shoveling some books into a bag?

It seemed so.

“You already know what we’re going to talk about,” he says, and the time vanishes and I’m on the floor, sobbing, my face pressed into my knees. I think I am sobbing so hard that my heart will explode and my body will lie in pieces in the room, a victim of an untraceable crime.
 

we were just an empty dream
 

The sun disappears. It is night. Street noise comes and goes, getting lost amidst the voices at the bar across the street. He may have come and gone because none of his things are in the room anymore. It seems a bit too cruel.

The room is dark except for one small lamp of mine on the desk, casting wan, sick light across the floor. I look up to the clock by the bed and check the time. Eleven. He should have been to bed by now.

I rise a little shakily, cramped and aching. I do not bother to go to the bathroom to wash my face because I am fairly sure it will be futile.

I sit on the bed, slouching, staring at the stained bandage on my hand. Since high school we had been together; he had sworn his love to me and I to him. Have I missed some telltale sign that should have told me that he never loved me? Or that his love was starting to fade?

I raise my eyes to the mirror across from the bed and stare myself in the eye. The irony strikes me that he is leaving me for a younger woman, but there is not a strand of grey to be seen in my blond hair. I look terrible, but no more than usual after I cry. Was it I who was different? Was it him? Could it really be that he was so obedient to his father that he would leave me at his whim?
 

too big for hope alone to fill
 

Maybe he had changed. After all, if word ever got out that he was living with a man, his career would nose-dive. He stands to lose everything, where I, who has nothing to lose, could take some comfort in that. His family would disown him; mine would just be glad I was happy. It is a harsh dichotomy all the nuances of which I never could quite understand, and probably never would.

My body is aching with weariness, but I rise. I need to find him before I try to sleep. Maybe he could pretend to be asleep so I could kiss him goodnight just one more time.

I step out of the room, my bare feet echoing softly down the wood floors. The barrenness of the apartment amazes me. Had so much been his?

From the hallway I can see a tuft of dark hair over the armrest of the couch. His breathing is deep and even, that of a man peacefully at rest. I move towards him, silent as I can, praying not to wake him. If this is the last time I can see him asleep, see his sweet peaceful face, I will make it sacred to me.

I sit on the love seat, where, appropriately, we had made love the first time we moved into the apartment. I trace his cheekbones with my gaze; lips, eyelashes, nose, chin… everything is the same as last night; nothing has changed except who we are to each other.

I feel my throat tighten, but I stifle it, sliding off the seat to move closer to him. I will sleep here, beside him on the floor, and if he hates me for it, I can’t help it. I need every moment with him to be fully mine, because it never will be again.
 

I know I’m a dreamer, so I’ll give you that
 

I sit cross-legged beside him, leaning back against the sofa. I can feel the warmth emanating from him. A pulse of jealousy flings itself through my veins. Somebody is taking this away from me?

I shut my eyes, weary, worn, and empty, content in a way to just sit here beside him. I’m a fool, and I know it, but I cannot be anything else.

It seems only that I shut my eyes to I have fallen asleep, and to dream. Warm arms encircle me, smooth and strong, arms I know and trust. My eyes are already shut, but maybe they aren’t in the dream, so I slide my arms around these, holding tightly, praying. Soft lips press to my neck, so gentle I hardly realize they are there, and I am pulled towards the warmth, towards the kindness. I think I am crying in my dream, because my eyes are wet, but I don’t know if it is with happiness or despair. The lips move from my neck to my chin, to my cheek, to my mouth, covering it sweetly.

I am leaning back against him, and he’s cradling me in his arms, holding me tightly, and his lips continue to pursue mine. I’m hot and cold and afraid and safe, all at once, and I feel something is not quite right.

The world in my mind begins to shiver and break, and I open my eyes.
 

still I hope
 

And I see him, his cheeks damp, holding me like he’ll never let me go, like he could never let me go. I pull away from his kiss, gazing at him in apprehension, expecting to be pushed away despite his touch. But he is weeping and I cannot find it in me to ignore that.

I raise a hand, not the bandaged one, to his cheeks, wiping away a tear, something so trite but sometimes so desired, and he turns his face and presses his lips into the palm of my hand. His other hand reaches for my shirt, the buttons sliding away from the holes with his deft touch. He’s kissing up my wrist, my arm, laying ticklish kisses in my elbow, all the while pulling me toward him.

I’m disbelieving and terrified and overjoyed and overwhelmed, and I pull him toward him and kiss him again on the lips, fearful and trusting, hoping with every breath I’ve breathed that this is real and true. Raw emotion burns through his lips, his hands cupping my cheeks, then lowering to my shoulders and chest, needy, exploring, as if in him there is a terrible hunger that only I can quench. It’s frightening and I stop for a moment to gather myself together. It is this moment that he exhales painfully and pauses his trembling explorations.

I’m afraid to speak to break the spell, because maybe this is still a dream, but I am compelled to.
 

I’m more than just a place you laid your hat
 

“Shinobu…”

His breath is ragged and he will not look me in the eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mitsuru… I never thought…”

I have never seen him so intensely in pain, so torn. This isn’t the man I know. I am uneasy. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not, I hurt you, I hurt you and can’t fix it…”

I bite my tongue. I want to say that he could fix it, that he could stay, but wonder if I am so petty why he would ever want to.

“I know, you’ll probably hate me, but it’s a matter of what’s right, not what I want…”

He’s murmuring strains of nonsense to my ears, but I feel some of the emptiness lift from me. I hug him tightly, pressing my face into the crook of his neck where I can smell him. He’s a little sweaty, but I think it is from nervousness.

“Shinobu,” I whisper into his neck, “if you still love me, please don’t leave me.”
 

you’re a land of secrets, its only citizen
 

He jerks away from me with a start, as if I’d struck him, staring at me with angry wounded eyes. “What?”

All I can do is gaze blankly at him, surprised and somehow despairing.

“How can you ask that of me… after all this…?” Is he shaking? “Mitsuru, I thought you of all people would understand…”

“Understand what?” I whisper, feeling that anything I could do now would be futile. “I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand you at all. I thought I did. I really thought I did. But what I do know–“

“Don’t.”

I barge on. “But what I do know is that I love you and I always will. I’m sorry I don’t understand, but you haven’t told me anything, only that you’re leaving! What am I supposed to think?”

He’s still staring at me with those eyes, those damn inscrutable eyes, which are getting colder by the second.

“Shinobu, I’d give up everything for you!” My whispered is almost harsh, but certainly intense. “You’re everything to me, my whole life–“

“Don’t say that.” His tone makes me stop.

Maybe I’ve never understood him. I certainly don’t seem to know this man in front of me now.
 

and though I paid my dues
 

“There’s always a price, Mitsuru, for happiness.” His voice is surprisingly bitter. “But you wouldn’t know. You never did, did you?”

A chill runs up my spine, cold and unforgiving. If I open my mouth, my voice will be shrill and uncontrolled.

“You always took things at face value, always thought you understood everything because you believed in what you saw.” His eyes flash towards me suddenly, and I see he is angry. “Well, Mitsuru? Am I what you believed in?”

I open my mouth to say yes, he is everything I believed in and ever wanted, but he cuts me off.

“What do you want from me, Mitsuru? I’m not everything you think. You can’t love someone who would just walk out on you. You shouldn’t, anyway. And isn’t that what I’m doing?”

“Shinobu-“

Dark eyes come to rest on mine. “How can I get through to you to tell you I’m leaving?”

This is worse than when he slapped me.
 

I was never allowed in
 

I’m being choked. I’m sure of it. “Just… why,” I manage to force out.

His face is impervious now, though tears stains his cheeks like rain stains a whitewashed fence. “Because I believe in something greater than what you think love is.”

It’s such an absolute answer, saying everything without saying anything at all.

I lower my head, defeated, empty, dank. “I’m sorry, Shinobu. I’ll… go to bed.” I rise, and I can’t bring myself to look at him at all. I think I can feel accusations and words of betrayal straining off his lips. How could I not have understood him all these years?

I feel dizzy from the suddenness of my standing, but shuffle towards the door obediently. I will go crawl into the bed we have always shared, and be alone for the first time in six years.

I realize suddenly that my feet will be very cold tonight with no other legs to warm them on.

I am about halfway through the kitchen when I hear the door to the living room slam behind me.
 

and so I am a stranger
 

I sit slowly on the side of the bed. My blankets. My sheets. Washed. I can’t smell anything of him, of us, only harsh detergent. I move aside the covers and slide in, obedient to an invisible face, a silent commanding voice. My eyes shut automatically, but I don’t cry. I don’t think I even know how to anymore.

Who am I? Who is he? Where are we? This morning I was so sure of my life, sure of my hopes and dreams, sure of him. Where can I go from here?

My wounded hand starts to throb as I begin to worry, sick to my stomach. I can’t afford the apartment on my own salary. I don’t own the car. Electricity bills have skyrocketed in the past few months. My friends are mostly just acquaintances to have a late night beer with. There’s no one here, no one around at all.

I force my breathing to slow, to deepen. All I can see behind my closed eyelids is his hurt, disgusted face. Of course I couldn’t understand. I see now I never have.

It takes some time, but I fall into a fitful sleep.
 

but especially today
 

The noise outside wakes me up earlier than usual. I strain to sit up, bleary. Despite my brief respite, I cannot forget that today is the day. I rub my unwilling eyes and rise, realizing I had fallen asleep in my disheveled clothes. Well, it has happened before.

I push open the door to the bedroom and am greeted with a pile of boxes in my face, each carefully labeled with the contents. I can’t help but read them.

A voice surprises me nearby on the other side of the boxes. “I’ve drawn your bath water. It will get cold if you leave it long.”

“I don’t care.” The sullenness of my own words disgusts me. Am I a child with his toy taken away? Yes and yes and no.

He is silent. “I suppose not. It’s not my problem.”

So cold. How I wish for the ability to turn off my emotions with a blink. That would certainly solve everything here, wouldn’t it? I tell him so. “I wish I were like you.”

“You don’t even know what I’m like.”

He never pulls his punches either. “I might have a little idea. Maybe not.” Have all my tears been cried? All I feel is a profound sense of weariness.

He refuses to answer me, or at least does not care I have spoken. This doesn’t seem to faze me anymore.

“I can help you carry out the boxes,” I offer. Better to go out with a calmer face than last night.

“Don’t bother. The movers will. Besides, you’re not even dressed.”
 

as I get sad and lonely
 

He’s definitely making this not worth it. I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes. “Well, if you need any help, I’m willing.” This desolate desert landscape was once my heart. How a few shed tears change everything.

There is a long pause, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking. I think I feel his eyes on me, so after a moment, I open my own. He seems to be in the midst of checking the labels on his boxes, but I know him a little more than he thinks by now. Perhaps I know him a little more than he wants.

“Shinobu,” I say quietly, lowering my gaze to the floor. “Is it all right if I just ask a few things? We were friends once too, you know.”

He does not look at me. “I don’t promise to answer them.”

“That’s more than I could ask.” My words are bitter. “What did your father say to you?”

“He told me it was time to make good on my promise.”

A promise that had meant more to him than me? Loneliness envelops me in an almost tangible cloud. “Oh.” I sway, even though I’m leaning against something. “I see.”

“You want to know what it is.”

I open my eyes and raise them, begging wordlessly, shamelessly.

His lips purse, then open.
 

and you get your way
 

There is a sharp rap on the door. “Sato’s Movers,” calls a voice through the door, and he turns away and I think I will never know, and never understand, and always, always be lost.

My feet take me into the living room, where I sit, empty. I hear footsteps and voices, but none of them touch me. Nothing can touch me. I’m in a wall of ice, of his creation. All that I am is his creation, and only ever will be. There is nothing of me, only him, and I wonder if I’m him maybe he’ll love me again, or at least not get rid of me so easily.

I see on the floor a small white button and I reach to check my shirt. It is from me, from last night.

It’s so unfair. No one should be able to destroy everything my life is built around in one afternoon. My breathing is ragged. The funny thing is, no matter how much I rail, no matter how loudly I protest, it doesn’t matter.

I can’t control him, and I never could. It was one of the things I always loved about him. He was not wild, but neither was he tamed, and always surprising.

One small thing lodges itself in my mind, however, and I rise.
 

you were looking for your distance
 

The bedroom door is open and I move slowly through the tangle of men and boxes. “Who is that?” one person asks, and I hear Shinobu’s voice answer, simple and chilly, “Just my old roommate; don’t worry about him.”

It bounces off my shell and I continue.

The closet is empty of his things, which means it is mostly empty. I have few clothes to hang up because my job does not demand it and I’m never comfortable in those pressed pants anyway. I dig into my box of old letters that I’ve kept since junior high, unabashedly sentimental, and pull out a small wrapped gift. It’s so simple, so meaningful, but so complicated now, and meaningless, and I want to laugh and cry, but I shut my eyes and take a deep breath and rise.

“Shinobu,” I say, quiet but sure he is listening. “Please. There’s one last thing I forgot until now.”

“Just one moment,” I hear him tell the others, and he glides into the room and shuts the door.

I concentrate to remember this moment and turn.

“Yes?” he asks brusquely.
 

and sensing my resistance
 

I try to smile. “I had a gift for you that I was going to give you in a few weeks.”

He frowns. He knows what is in a few weeks. “Don’t.”

“I have to. I thought about this for a long time. I want to. Even if you just take it and throw it away, I want to.”

His eyes are dark like a storm, roiling and fierce. “I suppose I can’t stop you.”

I don’t want to refute that, though we both know he could. But he’s fulfilling a condemned man’s last request. “Please don’t.” I extend out my hand, the box nestled into my palm. His face flickers.

“Mitsuru…” Warning. Cold.

“Please take it.”

He pulls it from my bandaged hand, careful to avoid any contact with me. I feel leprosy stain my skin.

“You don’t have to open it now.”

“You’re a fool.”
 

you had to do your will
 

I feel my eyes well up with tears I had thought frozen. “I know,” I say ruefully. “But we both always knew that.”

“This is where your paychecks have been going.” His voice is suddenly tense, angry. “This is why you were late with rent that time, why you were skimping on your lunches.”

“It’s not–“

“I don’t think I can accept this, Mitsuru.”

I’ve shrunk, into a little ball, or maybe a toadstool, and can only look up at him and sway. The world is magnified and reflected, and nothing is everything and everything has disappeared.

“I’m sorry.”

“Please–“
 

I had to learn the hard way
 

“No.”

I clench my fists into my hands, and though my nails are cut short, I feel them digging into my palms. My wounded hand protests less subtly. “You haven’t even opened it!”

“I know what it is.”

“But you haven’t–“

“I know what it is.”

The patronizing repetition filled me with fire to melt the ice. “Fuck you then! You can’t even do one last fucking thing for me, can’t even open a fucking gift, and you’re just leaving, just fucking /leaving/ without telling me why or where, and you can’t even do this one thing for me?” I’m shaking with fury and I’m yelling and I know it. I’m sure the movers are puzzled by this exchange.

His face doesn’t even change. “If you want so badly for me to see it, I’ll open it. But I can’t keep it.”

I feel like a child, but I won’t back down, because I can’t.
 

we were just an empty dream
 

Obligingly his fingers move swiftly to untie the bow, and then easily take off the wrapping paper without tearing it. The box within is dark green, soft to the touch. He places the bow and paper on my dresser and examines the box.

He looks up at me, a frown on his lips. I am nervous, but desperately proud, feeling stronger by the moment. I’ve waited for this and despite it being very different circumstances than I expected, he is still opening it. Perhaps this is my last ditch effort to dissuade him from leaving. There is time even now to send the movers home.

“Are you sure you still want me to open this?” he asks, and his voice is almost gentle. Caring about my feelings now? It’s too late for either of us to turn back.

I nod slowly, meeting his eyes, firm and decided.

He frowns a bit more deeply this time, and lifts the cover of the box.
 

too big for hope alone to fill
 

He is quiet for a long time, gazing into the box. I start to feel uneasy and shift my weight. Still he is silent, looking, staring. I feel cold. Perhaps I should not have gone this far.

“You bought me a fucking engagement ring.” He has not moved, except for his mouth. I start; this is the first time he has cursed through this entire debacle.

I stammer, unable to get any words out.

“You bought me… an engagement ring,” he repeats, clearly trying to rein in his voice. He still has not looked at me.

I rally myself. “Yes. I did.”

Now he looks, and his face is enraged and furious. He raises his hand, and I almost expect to be hit, but instead he throws the ring and the box directly at my head, and storms out of the room, closing the door with a jarring slam. I duck and scramble for the ring as it sails past my ear, trying to make sure it does not fall out of the box and is lost already. Nothing. Nothing. All of this had amounted to nothing.

I catch hold of the box and the ring is there. I pull it out and hold it securely between my fingers. I won’t let him leave like this.
 

holding out for change
 

I go after him, not on his heels, but as close as I can come. “Shinobu, wait! I want–“

He wheels on me, in the midst of movers and moving, livid. “You want? /You/ want? You always want, don’t you? Have you ever even bothered to think about anyone else? Did you ever bother to think about me?”

“No, listen!” I’m frantic. He can’t go away hating me like this. “Please!”

“Mitsuru, I stayed because I thought you would know when I had to go! I thought you were always the one who would understand because you always said you did! No one else would even give me that! And now to find out you lied to me?”

“Shinobu, I didn’t, I don’t know! I’m sorry, just don’t–“

“Don’t what? Don’t leave? Don’t abandon you to what we both know will make your life better? Don’t leave you for my destiny? What?”

I’m choked. “Can’t we… can’t we try…?”

“There is no more we, Mitsuru, if there ever even was.”
 

I know we never stood a chance
 

“There was,” I say quietly, desperately, almost a whisper. “I remember.”

“Let it go.”

“I can’t!”

“You have to.” His eyes size me up, his fury suddenly erased, a breeze of air conditioning. “You have no choice.”

Again and again and again and again. “But you do.”

He sighs, quietly, and a mover coughs. How shameful this must be for everyone who cares, for everyone who isn’t me. “But I don’t.”

“I…”

“Please don’t make any more of a scene, Mitsuru. Just go back and stay in the room and read or something. Please.” I feel as if a door has closed on his face, because there is nothing there not commercial or kosher.
 

so I could only wait
 

I take a step backwards because I feel like I’m going to fall. There is nothing there, so I take another step backwards, and another, and I’m inside the bedroom. Slowly, obediently, a well-trained dog, I shut the door with a soft click and realize the ring is still in my hand.

I hear the rattling of boxes and the sterility of the men’s voices. In and out to do their job, not a word to anyone. Was that Shinobu? In and out and sterile and gone.

The day’s heat is starting to creep into the room. I shed myself of my clothes and pull on clean ones, definitely mismatched and unflattering, but what does it matter anymore?

I move to the window where I can see the truck. There are perhaps three movers and Shinobu, hauling boxes, never once breaking a sweat despite his long pants and long sleeves. A late summer wind whips up a pile of dust and sends it hurtling across the street, a hurricane futility.

Almost all the boxes are gone.
 

and watch you slip right through my hands
 

There is a hole in the screen that I have never noticed before, small and round, big enough for a mosquito to enter. I study it for a while, mindlessly, then move my hand up, pressing a finger against the screen. It’s cool and I leave my hand there a moment. When I pull it away there are bumps in my fingers where the screen had not pressed.

He stands outside, pausing or finished, chatting and laughing with the movers. Was he always so false and I just never noticed it? It must be a break because they slowly start moving back inside.

Idly, I press my hand against the screen again.

He moves back out of the apartment, a box in hand, and toward the truck. Fascinated strangely, I watch as he walks, between each separate digit, passing through my fingers, disappearing into the truck, then back towards the house, continually slipping through my fingers. Have I always been this unable to touch him?

I bury my face in my hands.
 

you were looking for your distance
 

There is a soft knock on the door. I do not bother to answer because if it is him he will just come in anyway.

After a moment of waiting, he does.

I do not look at him, but I feel him sit down slowly on the bed beside me. The air no longer seems tense, but withdrawn, hopeless. I am silent so he can speak when he is ready.

He clears his throat first. “I truly am sorry, Mitsuru.”

I can’t even bring myself to look at him. “I’ll be fine.”

Pause, both of us judging my lie to see if it would stand. He passes it.

“I’ll leave my new number for you on the kitchen table. I’ll expect you to call.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

The second lie takes a little more work to force out, but he still lets it go.

“Please go on with your life.”

I grit my teeth. “I’ll be fine,” I repeat. My new mantra.

I know he frowns because I know him.
 

and sensing my resistance
 

“And you, Shinobu?” I inflict into the silence. “You’ll call, right? I don’t want to be paying for all of the phone bills.”

His lie is smooth, buttery, reassuring, but clearly false. “It’s in my cell.”

“Right. Tell whatever her name is hi for me.”

“Of course.”

So hopeless. So despondent. I work up the courage for one more personal thing to say.

“You really did make me happy, Shinobu. I loved you.” I cannot bring myself to use the current tense.

“Thank you, Mitsuru, that means a great deal to me.” Not a pause, not even a batted eyelash. “I cared for you as well.”

I shut my eyes. Silence. So empty.
 

you had to do your will
 

“Don’t invite me,” I say quietly.

He knows I am talking about his wedding. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He pauses. “I had thought to make you best man.”

“Don’t fuck with me. It’s not funny.” I can’t stop the words that tumble unbidden to my mouth.

“I would not joke about such a thing.”

I don’t answer for a long, long moment. He shifts his weight, sensing my feelings, and I am pleased it makes him uncomfortable.

“Don’t invite me,” I say again. So much repetition. Is shouting the only other way to be heard?
 

I had to learn the hard way
 

“I won’t then.” It’s simple, easy, and done.

I am no longer part of his life. At all.

He succeeded with so few words, barely twelve hours, to cleave me away from him, using the sharpest, keenest tools he had, and he had been completely successful. There would be scar tissue, but it wouldn’t be obvious right away. We both know how to cope in extreme situations.

He rises. This is his last exit from this room, from this apartment. From my life.

“Shinobu.”

Silence, then: “Yes?”

“I’ll remember everything.”
 

we were just an empty dream
 

“So will I, Mitsuru.” Strangely, his words don’t comfort me. Maybe because I don’t know him anymore. Or ever did.

I rise as well, summoning everything in me to face him a last time. I stand and gaze at him, one centimeter taller than me. I must look like a mess, but I know with certainty I am not the only one suffering. My eyes trace his cheekbones one last time and I stifle a desire to reach out and stroke his face. Instead, I brazenly stick out my hand. “Goodbye, Shinobu.”

He is startled and I see the hurt flash across his face, but as soon as it appears, it is gone. He accepts my handshake firmly. “Goodbye, Mitsuru.”

He turns.
 

too big
 

I watch him walk out the door, throat closing, plugged. His footsteps on the floor are light, as they have always been, and his posture is straight and sure, as it probably ever will be. He does not glance at me as he shuts the door.

I hear the door to the apartment close, and the sound of a key being pushed through the mail slot.

So thorough.
 

for hope
 

A blind, ridiculous smile spreads across my face, and I’m choking, drowning, dying. I force myself to the window. The moving truck is long gone. He has gotten into his car and is starting the engine. I know he sees me watching, but he does not look up.

Instead, he guns the motor and speeds away.
 

alone
 

I sink to my knees, clutching his ring, holding my arms tightly to myself, wave after wave of overwhelming, futile sobs crashing through me, rocking me like I’m a sinking ship. I fall to the floor because that’s all I can do, and my eyes are raw with crying. There’s nothing anymore. There’s just me. Everything is gone. Everything is meaningless. Everything is empty.
 

to fill
 
 
 

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