The decision is still there, humming at the back of my mind. If I send it, I'll have to face Satoko with whatever consequences follow. If I don't, the thread between us might fray until it snaps.
I remember Grandfather's voice: Choose when not to act.
I remember Satoko's voice: You have a remarkable intelligence.
They don't contradict each other. They just demand different kinds of courage.
I run my fingers along the edge of the paper. The motion is small, almost idle, but I feel the weight of it. Sometimes choices don't announce themselves with grand gestures. Sometimes they arrive quietly, disguised as the moment you decide whether to pick up a pen.
Maybe I'll never know whether my feelings for him are love, projection, or some strange hybrid born from grief. But I do know this: both men taught me that hesitation is only a refuge for so long. Eventually, you have to move—toward something, or away from it.
