Day 5 – April 5, 2024
______________________
I woke up early.
Not just early—unnaturally early. The kind of early that feels disconnected from time itself. A silence too complete. A stillness too untouched. No faint hum of traffic yet. No sleepy footsteps above my ceiling. No neighbors banging their kettle lids in the unit next door. Just the soft, eerie drone of the city holding its breath.
Even my alarm clock was asleep, its tiny red digits glowing blankly in the dark like a set of indifferent eyes. 4:13 AM.
Why?
Why now?
No nightmares this time. No cold sweat. No rush of breath clawing up my throat. Just... awareness. Just an unprovoked opening of eyes to a world that wasn't ready to be seen yet.
The room was still cloaked in faint twilight. The shadows stretched long and curved, curling around the corners like lazy cats. I could hear the soft ticking of my old wall clock, out of rhythm like it had given up trying to mark real time.
I turned my head slightly, wincing as the bandage on my hand rubbed against the sheets. The pain had dulled, but the memory hadn't.
And with that memory, she returned.
Fujimoto Airi.
Her name came uninvited but welcome, like sunlight trickling through cracked curtains. It hovered in my mind, not loud, but steady. Gentle.
She wasn't here. She hadn't messaged. There was no new trace of her in my life—not since that moment. That short, simple, fleeting encounter. Yet... she was everywhere.
Her presence clung to me like the warmth of a forgotten dream.
I looked down at my hand, still wrapped in white gauze, slightly frayed at the edges. I raised it slowly, staring at it as if it were someone else's limb. But no, it was mine. It still stung when I curled it too tightly. Still throbbed in cold air.
But more than the wound, I remembered her hands.
The way she touched mine—steady, precise, but soft. Her fingers brushed my skin with such careful grace, I thought I might shatter under her touch. She smelled of something faintly floral, like cherry blossoms dipped in soap and sun. The kind of scent that didn't just exist on her body—but lived in her presence.
And her voice.
That little laugh.
That breathy giggle when I made a joke I didn't even know was funny.
It echoed in my skull, sweeter than any melody. A sound that didn't ask to be remembered, but was—effortlessly.
And then...
That kiss.
That imaginary kiss.
It never happened. I know that. I'm not crazy. I'm not delusional.
But in my heart, it felt like it did.
In my mind, it plays over and over. The moment my eyes closed. The breath I held. The gentle lean forward. The brush of her lips—featherlight, hesitant. Warm. The flavor of her lipstick—vanilla, maybe? Or rose? Something light and addictive. A kiss that existed only in my head... but felt more real than the world around me.
I touched my lips, lightly, afraid even of the weight of my own fingers. I swore I could still feel her there. Lingering.
And I whispered, barely audible in the hush of morning:
"I love you... Fujimoto Airi."
The words didn't ask for her to hear them.
They asked for me to hear them.
To finally say it, even if the room stayed silent in reply.
I sat up in bed. My blanket slid down to my waist, pooling around me like the remnants of a dream. The air was cold, biting gently against my skin. The kind of cold that didn't make you shiver—but made you remember you were alive.
I took in my apartment again. The same four walls. Cracked paint near the ceiling. A water stain spreading like an ink blot in one corner. My old desk—cluttered with empty cups, papers, unopened mail. A pile of laundry I kept promising to fold but never touched.
It was nothing special. Nothing close to a home. But it was mine.
This was my beginning.
A crummy apartment with a rusted ceiling fan and a leaky sink.
This was my ground zero.
I closed my eyes and imagined the future. Not something grand. Not something impossible. Just... possible.
A house.
Not even a mansion. Just a home. With wide windows. Wooden floors that creaked when you walked on them barefoot. The smell of food in the air. A warm couch. A quiet lamp. Laughter. Her laughter.
Her footsteps walking barefoot in the kitchen. Her voice calling my name. Her fingers brushing against mine—not to bandage a wound, but to hold my hand without a reason.
I wanted that.
Not for the fantasy. Not for the comfort.
But because she made me want it. Want more. Be more.
My eyes burned, not from tears, but from pressure. A pressure I couldn't place. My chest ached—not from pain, but from something worse. Something emptier. Longing, maybe. Regret. Hope. All tangled into one unspoken mess.
I let out a shaky breath and laid back down, staring at the ceiling. One crack ran across it like a scar—untouched since I moved in. It reminded me of myself.
Unfixed. But still holding.
I counted seconds by the blink of my eyes. There was no sound but the groan of the city waking up slowly in the distance. My mind drifted again.
To her smile. Her eyes. Her fingers. Her softness. Her presence.
And then... to my life.
The dull job. The hollow greetings in the office. The cheap instant noodles. The fake smiles. The plastic chairs. The endless routine.
And then—her again. A sudden break in the grey.
Like color flooding into a black-and-white world.
Like music where there had only been static.
Like breath after being underwater too long.
I sat up once more.
The air still smelled like dust. My shoulders hurt. My back cracked as I twisted. I stretched my arms over my head until my bones clicked in protest.
Pain. Real.
But so was everything else.
She had awakened something in me. Something I didn't know I still had.
Desire.
Not just for her. But for life. For purpose. For a reason to keep dragging my body out of bed every morning.
Someday I'll live in a place where the walls aren't this thin. Where the floor doesn't creak with my every move. Where I don't have to wear jackets indoors because the heating barely works. A place where I don't have to eat dinner standing up because I still haven't bought a kitchen chair.
A place where she can laugh without the neighbors hearing through the walls.
A place where I can breathe without this weight on my chest.
A place where I don't feel like a guest in my own life.
One day.
One day I'll come home and she'll be waiting—not just in my mind, not just in my memory, but there. Her smile, her voice, her warmth. She'll look at me like I matter. Like I'm enough.
And maybe then... I won't feel like a shadow anymore.
Until that day...
I'll endure.
I'll keep waking up before the world. Keep drinking bitter coffee from chipped mugs. Keep walking through this life like every step is a debt I owe.
Because I want to be worthy.
Of this dream.
Of her.
Of the life I haven't yet earned.
Not now. Not tomorrow. But someday.
And I'll keep telling myself this—
Until the silence breaks.
Until the alarm clock rings.
Until my heart stops whispering and finally, finally shouts.
But for now...
I stay here.
In this room.
With her name echoing in my chest like a prayer I can't stop reciting.
_____
It's 5 in the morning. The sky outside still wrapped in a dark blue blanket, tinged ever so slightly by the promise of dawn. The air was cold, almost biting, brushing against my skin like the whisper of a ghost. But it was refreshing. A reminder that I was still alive. Still here. Still trying.
I stood up.
Made breakfast with hands that were still half-asleep. The sizzling of the pan was the only sound in my small apartment. I took a shower, the cold water jolting me fully awake. The fog in my mind cleared little by little as I brewed coffee. The aroma filled the room. Bitter. Warm. Comforting.
Another day. Another chance.
Another day to build my dreams from the dust I've been collecting for years. Another shot to move forward—even if it's just by an inch.
Before my alarm could even scream its morning cry, I was already out the door. My footsteps quick, purposeful, echoing on the silent street. The wind tugged at my coat, and for a moment, I felt like a lone traveler marching into battle.
As I crossed the corner by the bakery, I glanced at the bandage on my hand. The skin beneath still throbbed faintly from yesterday's accident. A careless slip. A sharp edge. And then her voice. Soft. Warm. Worrying. She had been there. Fujimoto Airi. Her name echoed in my head like a melody I couldn't forget.
She didn't have to help me. She didn't have to care.
But she did.
And now, I had to do something. Anything. Just to repay her kindness. I remembered the way her eyes lit up yesterday, talking to her coworkers about sweets. That one moment when she laughed—genuinely. Not the usual cold and quiet aura she wore around the office. That smile—like sunshine breaking through a snowstorm.
She likes sweets. I'm sure of it.
So I went into the store and bought a box filled with every sweet I could find. Chocolate-filled, strawberry-glazed, cream-puffed, custard-soaked. I didn't know what she liked exactly, but I wanted her to have all of them. Just in case. Just so none would be wrong.
I even bought the best coffee in town. The one brewed with imported beans, the one people say smells like heaven. She deserves that, I thought. She really does.
Now I'm here. At the company.
The building looms quietly in the morning haze, empty and still. No one else has arrived yet. The lights are off in most stations, and the hum of computers hasn't begun its usual chorus.
My heart is beating too fast. Like it's trying to break free from my chest.
I walked toward her station. Each step felt heavier. Like the floor itself wanted to stop me. I placed the box and the cup of coffee neatly on her desk. A little note tucked on the side: "Thank you. -From the guy with the bandaged hand."
Then I turned.
Walked back to my station.
Why am I nervous? It's just a thank you. Just a simple gesture. Nothing more.
But my cheeks are warm. My hands are trembling. I buried my face in my hands. This is so stupid. Why do I feel like I just confessed my love or something?
What if she misunderstands?
What if she thinks I'm just like the others?
I've seen it. The way guys here look at her. The way they try to talk to her. Fake laughter. Stupid pickup lines. She always brushes them off. Always cold. Always unreadable.
What if she thinks I'm one of them now?
I shook my head.
No. I just wanted to say thank you. That's all. But now it feels like I lit a match and threw it into a pile of gasoline. My mind is spiraling. If undo buttons existed in the real world, I'd have pressed it a thousand times by now.
The day crawls.
Minutes stretch into hours. The office fills slowly. People chatting, typing, walking around. But I stay still. Barely breathing. Hoping she won't notice. Hoping she won't say anything.
Then breaktime arrives.
Everyone stands up. Colleagues stepping away from their desks. One by one. Laughter and chatter fill the room as they leave. But I stay.
Still frozen.
Should I go out?
What if she's outside?
What if I run into her?
What if she's already seen it?
My palms are sweaty. I can't focus. I can't even hear what people around me are saying anymore. My ears are filled with a low buzz, like my own nervousness has become sound.
Okay. I need to act normal. I'll go to the vending machine. Just buy something. Eat it. Come back. Like nothing happened.
Right?
Right.
So I walk. Trying to move like a spy. Quiet. Invisible. Graceful. Like a shadow on a mission.
I reach the vending machine. My fingers trembling as I press the buttons.
Snack. Juice. Just something. Anything.
The items drop with a mechanical clunk. I grab them.
Turn around.
And there.
There at the end of the hallway—
She's standing.
Fujimoto Airi.
Her eyes on me.
My breath caught in my throat. My legs stop working. I'm standing face to face with the one person I was desperately trying to avoid.
No.
No no no.
Why now?
I'm not ready. I can't even string a sentence in my head right now. What should I say? Anything? Something? Everything?
"Umm… Nice day we're having?" That's what escapes my brain.
Stupid. Stupid. What am I even saying? What kind of greeting is that?
She doesn't smile.
She doesn't speak.
She just… walks away.
My heart shatters like glass dropped from the sky. The hallway grows colder. Longer. Emptier.
Did she… ignore me?
Did she really not say anything?
Did she really see the sweets and the coffee and think I'm just another guy desperate for her attention?
Did she… hate it?
I couldn't move. Couldn't even think straight anymore.
My hands, the same hands that were trembling earlier, now felt numb.
She didn't even look back.
Not even a single word.
Not even a nod.
Nothing.
Just silence.
Just a turning back.
Just her footsteps disappearing into the distance.
And me…
Still here.
Frozen.
A thank you turned into goodbye.
I whispered her name in my mind. Over and over. Fujimoto Airi. Like a prayer. Like a regret I'll carry forever.
Maybe I messed up.
Maybe I was too much.
Maybe I should've just said thank you with words instead of sweets.
Maybe—
Maybe I just lost her.
Just like that.
And the scariest part is… I might never get the chance again.
_____
I went back to my station. The walk felt endless, like I was returning from some great defeat—a soldier without a flag, a survivor from a war no one else fought. The fluorescent lights flickered softly overhead, but even that light seemed to avoid me, like it didn't want to shine on someone as pitiful as I was.
My chair creaked under my weight as I sat, but it didn't complain as much as my heart did. A huge pile of papers stared back at me. Animation assist schedules, correction sheets, redline notes from the seniors, all dumped like snow in the dead of winter. Yet, I didn't flinch. I didn't even blink. It was as if my soul had been sucked out and what remained was just a husk, operating under routine commands. I moved. I drew. I read. But none of it registered. I wasn't living—I was merely existing, like a body with wires connected, responding to code but not emotion. If someone asked me what I did that morning, I couldn't say. It was all a blur painted in grayscale.
It was the first time I fell in love, and it was also the first time I experienced the sting of rejection—or at least, what I thought was rejection. A blessing wrapped in the cruelest of curses.
Then it came.
Lunchbreak.
The clock ticked, indifferent and cruel. The moment it hit twelve, chairs shuffled. Footsteps echoed like a parade of joy, of life. Laughter bounced off the walls, conversations overlapped, the smell of warm food drifted like a breeze through an open window. Happiness made its way around the room, skipping over me entirely.
Was I the only one sad?
Probably. No, definitely. Everyone else had a reason to smile. A call from home. A joke from a friend. A quick trip outside for their favorite lunch. And me? I had guilt. I had regret. I had a hunger that no food could satisfy.
I didn't leave. I didn't even stand. My legs, they worked. I knew they did. But my will to move had been completely severed. Why bother, anyway? What was the point of lunch when the one person I wished to talk to was probably never going to look my way again? My heart was full, not with love, but with a sorrow so heavy I felt it pressing down on my ribs.
I kept drawing. Not because I wanted to, but because it was all I could do. Escape into motion. Hide behind strokes and lines and guides and keyframes. Pretend that the paper needed me, that the deadlines were hungry, and that my hands were necessary. That lie comforted me more than the truth ever could.
And then—
SMACK.
A hard slap, borderline violent, landed on my shoulder. I jolted like a machine shocked back to life.
"Hey, rook! You've been here all this time? Dude, I was looking everywhere for you. Thought you'd lost yourself in the office!"
Hiroshi Tanaka. Loud. Always laughing. The sun in the form of a man.
"You do know this is my fifth day here, right? Basically my first work week days," I mumbled, too broken to joke, too tired to match his energy.
He squinted at me, tilted his head, then let out a dramatic gasp. "Oh no. Wait. Don't tell me. You and little Miss Airi got into a love quarrel, didn't you?"
I shot him a look that was halfway between shocked and offended. "Haha. Very funny. Don't you have work to do? Animation contracts to finish?"
He leaned against my desk, completely unfazed by my tone. "Chill, bruh," he said with a stupid grin. "Let me give you some advice. No, wait. Let the god of romance—me—give you an important life lesson. Miss Airi has never once fallen for that sweet romance thing. And don't think you're the first one to get your heart stomped by her silence. If this office were a graveyard for broken hearts, you'd see graves everywhere. Yours is just another fresh tombstone."
I stared at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and a strange sort of comfort. Maybe it was the way he said it, like all this heartbreak was just a rite of passage. A storm you had to weather before finding your rainbow.
"Relax," he added, patting my desk. "Don't worry. She'll talk to you again. You'll get used to it."
Get used to it?
That phrase hit me harder than any heartbreak. The idea that pain like this could become familiar. Routine. Ordinary. But at the same time, maybe there was something relieving about it too. If others had survived it, maybe I could, too.
"Thanks, man," I said, more sincere than I meant it to be.
He leaned back, arms behind his head. "Hey, don't dare get too comfortable with me, rook. Remember, even if we're in the graveyard of broken hearts, I'm still your rival in Miss Fujimoto's love."
We laughed. God, we actually laughed. That sound—my own laughter—felt strange in my throat, like a voice I hadn't used in years. It didn't heal me, but it warmed me. Even if just a little.
Hiroshi Tanaka. My senior. My annoying mentor. The guy who probably took nothing seriously, but somehow always knew the right thing to say. His jokes were dumb, his attitude carefree, but there was something deeply genuine about him. In a place where deadlines drowned joy and passion often eroded under pressure, he was a flare of warmth.
"You know," he said after a moment, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the desk, "the first time I saw Airi? Man, she shot me down so hard I almost quit this job. Thought she was my destiny or something. Then she told me I was more annoying than a broken stylus. Harsh, right?"
I chuckled despite myself.
"But look at me now," he continued. "Still here. Still standing. Still annoying, apparently."
I nodded. It wasn't a miracle, but it was a start. A reminder that pain isn't permanent. That wounds become scars, and scars become stories. Maybe this wasn't the end. Maybe it was just a chapter.
Maybe this day wasn't so bad after all.
We sat there, two men in the graveyard of broken hearts. One a fresh mourner. The other, a veteran of emotional wars. And for that moment, in that quiet corner of the office, the world didn't seem so heavy.
After that moment with Tanaka, something inside me stirred. Just a spark. A flicker. Like a half-spent match barely catching flame again. Small, yes, but real. I clung to it like a drowning man clutching driftwood. That small fire... it pushed me.
Stacks of paper, flipped, signed, organized. Animation schedules, cleared like a leveled field. I didn't even pause. It was mechanical, efficient, maybe even impressive. My hands blistered a little. My back screamed. My eyes burned, red-rimmed and dry. Still, I worked. Not for glory, not even for distraction. I just needed to keep moving—forward, away, through—anything but still.
What a day. What a long, cruel, bone-grinding day.
And yet, I finished. Every task, every file, every damn obligation.
I leaned back in my chair, felt the wooden frame creak under me like an old man sighing. The office was quiet now. My floor was deserted, the buzz of life all but drained. Shadows painted long fingers across the walls, and the soft hum of a fluorescent light above me was the only sound I could hear.
I whispered it aloud, not even sure why. "Good job... me."
It was hollow.
The words felt like confetti thrown at a funeral.
I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder. Muscles complained, but my body obeyed. Step by step, I made my way to the hallway. But something... something pulled at me. I paused near the intersection of the office corridors. Her department. Fujimoto Airi's.
Why was I even stopping?
Why was I glancing like some love-struck ghost?
She might still be there. Maybe staying late to finish her own mountain of tasks. Maybe she'd step out, notice me, say something—anything.
But no. Her station was empty.
Not even a paper out of place.
No sign of her. No coat. No coffee mug. Just stillness. She was gone. Long gone.
And me? Still here. Still hoping.
I stood there longer than I should have. Just staring. Into nothing. Into a memory that wasn't even real. I finally turned, feeling emptier than I thought possible. My footsteps echoed in the hallway as I walked away, each one heavier than the last. A quiet, defeated march.
The city met me with blinding lights and cold air. The kind of night that reminds you you're alive but makes you wonder why. Neon bled into wet pavement. Cars whispered past. Somewhere, laughter danced from an izakaya down the road. Music played faintly from a passing taxi.
And me?
I walked, not toward home, but toward... something.
Without realizing, my feet had led me to her street.
The one she walked on every morning. The one she went home to every night.
Fujimoto Airi.
Her apartment was just down the block. I could almost feel her presence. See the soft light from her window. I could picture her brushing her hair, setting her alarm, drinking tea. Peaceful. Unbothered.
Should I go?
Should I knock?
Say something, anything, even if just to ask her to listen?
But I didn't move. I stood there like a monument to regret. I stared at that building like it was the last star in a dying sky.
And then I walked away.
I walked slowly, dragging my feet through my own disbelief. I didn't know what I was looking for, or why I even went there. All I knew was that she came into my life like rain in the middle of summer—unexpected, cleansing, but gone just as quickly. And I let her go.
Maybe she hated me now. Maybe not. But I believed it. I had to. Because the truth would hurt more.
My apartment welcomed me with its usual silence. Lights off. No warmth. Just furniture and walls. Things I owned but never loved.
I dropped my bag to the floor. The thud echoed through the room.
I didn't even bother changing. Just collapsed onto my bed, fully clothed. My blanket clung to me like a forgotten promise, but it offered no comfort.
The ceiling stared back.
12:04 a.m.
The numbers glared at me from the corner of my clock, red and relentless.
I felt crushed. Not by the workload, not by the fatigue. But by something heavier. Like the weight of all my choices piled on my chest.
I gave everything today. My body, my time, my energy. I fought through every task, completed every goal. I did what they told me a man should do—work hard, push forward, don't give up.
But none of it brought her back.
None of it made her look at me again.
I thought hard work was enough. I thought maybe... maybe I could prove something. Be someone. For her. For myself.
But all I am now is tired.
Tired of pretending I'm okay.
Tired of pretending I didn't care.
Tired of holding onto a hope that might not even exist.
I closed my eyes. The darkness behind my lids felt like sinking into water. No sound. No light. Just weight. The kind of weight that wraps around your ribs and steals the air from your lungs.
My body ached. My mind was numb.
I wanted to cry but had no tears left. I wanted to scream but had no voice. I wanted to sleep, but my thoughts wouldn't let me.
What if I just disappeared?
Would she notice?
Would anyone?
I turned to my side. The bedsheet felt cold. My phone buzzed somewhere in the room, but I ignored it. Maybe a reminder. Maybe a message. Maybe nothing at all.
I didn't want to see anything.
I just wanted silence.
Just for tonight.
Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe I'll wake up and this hole in my chest will be smaller. Maybe I'll forget her face for a second. Maybe I'll laugh again.
Maybe.
Maybe.
The world outside continued to spin. But mine had stopped, right here in this room.
I curled into myself. Tight. As if I could protect something that already shattered.
I breathed in. I breathed out.
And waited for the night to take me somewhere far.
Somewhere without her.
Somewhere without me.
Somewhere quiet.
Somewhere I could finally rest.
Tomorrow...
Tomorrow is another story.