The weeks following the auditorium confrontation changed everything, and nothing at all.
Haruki woke each morning expecting the world to feel different, but the sun still rose through his bedroom window at the same angle, casting the same familiar shadows across his apartment floor. The coffee still tasted the same. The city still hummed with its endless rhythm of traffic and construction and life moving forward, indifferent to his small personal revolutions.
But the messages were different now.
His phone buzzed constantly with notifications, comments, emails, interview requests. The video of his admission had gone viral in a way that made his original speech seem modest by comparison. Clips of him saying "Kazuki's right" and "I failed him" had been shared millions of times, spawning reaction videos, think pieces, and heated debates about accountability, bullying, and what it meant to be a victim.
The responses were split down the middle.
Half the internet praised him for his honesty, calling him brave for admitting his failures publicly. They said it took real courage to face your own complicity, to acknowledge that even victims could fail each other. They shared their own stories of times they had stayed silent, times they had chosen safety over solidarity, times they had failed to help when they could have.
The other half was less forgiving. They called him a coward, a fake, a hypocrite who was only admitting his failures now that he was rich and famous. They said he was stealing valor from real victims, that he was using his trauma as a shield while throwing others under the bus. They dug up old photos, old posts, anything they could find to prove he had always been selfish, always been weak.
Haruki tried not to read them, but the words seeped in anyway. They followed him into his dreams, whispered in his ear during quiet moments, carved themselves into the space between his thoughts.
Rina found him on his balcony three days after the event, staring out at the city with a cup of coffee growing cold in his hands.
"You're doom-scrolling again," she said, settling into the chair beside him.
"I'm not," he lied.
She reached over and turned his phone face down on the table. "What did I tell you about reading the comments?"
"That they're not real people."
"And?"
"That real people are complicated, but comments are just anger looking for a target."
"And?"
Haruki sighed. "That I can't control what people think, only what I do next."
"Smart woman, whoever told you that."
Despite everything, he almost smiled. "Yeah, she's alright."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the morning light creep across the buildings. Somewhere below, a street vendor was calling out his wares, and the sound mixed with the distant rumble of the subway and the ever-present hum of the city breathing.
"I keep thinking about him," Haruki said eventually.
"Kazuki?"
"Renji."
Rina nodded. She had been expecting this.
"He said he doesn't forgive me yet. Not that he won't, but that he doesn't yet. Like maybe someday he might."
"Maybe he will. Maybe he won't. That's his choice to make."
"I know that." Haruki's voice was quiet. "But I keep wondering what I could have done differently. Not just then, but now. If there's something I should be doing now."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Reach out to him? Apologize properly? Try to make amends somehow?"
Rina was quiet for a long moment. "What do you think he needs from you?"
"I have no idea."
"Then maybe that's your answer. Maybe what he needs is for you to not make it about what you need to do to feel better."
Haruki looked at her, surprised by the edge in her voice.
"I'm not trying to make myself feel better."
"Aren't you?"
The question hung in the air between them, sharper than he had expected. Rina's expression was gentle but unflinching.
"Sometimes the urge to make amends is really just guilt looking for a way out," she said. "Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is sit with the discomfort and not try to fix it."
Haruki considered this. "So I do nothing?"
"You do whatever feels right, but you check your motivations first. Are you reaching out because you think it will help him, or because you think it will help you?"
It was a question he wasn't ready to answer.
That afternoon, Haruki had lunch with Miyu for the first time in weeks. She had suggested they meet at a small ramen shop in Shibuya, the kind of place that only seated twelve people and had a line around the block every day at noon. But Miyu knew the owner, and she had called ahead.
They sat at the counter, steam rising from their bowls, the familiar sound of noodles being slurped mixing with the rhythmic chop of the chef's knife behind them.
"You look tired," Miyu said, not looking up from her bowl.
"I am tired."
"Good tired or bad tired?"
Haruki considered this. "Both, I think."
Miyu nodded. She understood.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. Haruki had forgotten how easy it was to be quiet with Miyu, how she never felt the need to fill every moment with words. She had always been like that, even in high school, even during the worst of it. She would sit with him in the library during lunch, both of them reading, both of them grateful for the company without needing to perform conversation.
"I saw the video," she said eventually.
"And?"
"And nothing. I just saw it."
Haruki waited, but she didn't elaborate. This was also typical of Miyu. She never offered opinions unless asked directly, and sometimes not even then.
"What did you think?" he asked.
"I thought you told the truth."
"That's it?"
"That's enough."
She finished her ramen and set down her chopsticks with a soft click. "People are complicated, Haruki. You were hurt, and you failed someone else, and both of those things are true. Most people can't hold two contradictory truths in their heads at the same time. It makes them uncomfortable."
"Does it make you uncomfortable?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Miyu finally looked at him, her dark eyes steady and calm. "Because I know you. I've known you for a long time. I know you're not perfect, and I know you're not evil. You're just human."
"Just human."
"It's harder than it sounds."
That evening, Haruki received a call from his agent. There was a movie deal on the table, a documentary about his life, a book contract from a major publisher. The offers were pouring in, all of them substantial, all of them eager to capitalize on the viral moment.
"This is it, Haruki," his agent said, voice crackling through the phone. "This is your moment. We can turn this into something really big."
But Haruki found himself hesitating. "I need some time to think."
"Time to think? Haruki, these offers won't wait forever. Strike while the iron is hot."
"I said I need time."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Is this about the negative comments? Because I can get you a PR team to help manage that."
"It's not about the comments."
"Then what?"
Haruki looked out his window at the city lights beginning to twinkle in the growing dusk. "I'm not sure I want to be famous for this."
"For what?"
"For being hurt. For failing. For being human. I'm not sure that's what I want to be known for."
His agent was quiet for a long moment. "What do you want to be known for?"
It was a good question. Haruki realized he didn't have an answer.
The next day, Aya called.
They hadn't spoken since the auditorium event, though she had sent him a simple text afterward: "Proud of you." He had responded with a heart emoji, but they hadn't talked about it further.
"Can we meet?" she asked. "I want to talk."
They met at a coffee shop near her university, a place they used to frequent when they were younger, when their problems seemed smaller and their futures seemed more certain. Aya looked different, Haruki noticed. More serious, more focused. She was wearing a blazer over a simple blouse, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. She looked professional, competent, like someone who had her life figured out.
"You look good," he said as she sat down across from him.
"Thanks. You look exhausted."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
She ordered a matcha latte, he ordered black coffee. They made small talk for a few minutes, but there was an undercurrent of tension, something unsaid hovering between them.
"I want to ask you something," Aya said finally, "and I want you to be honest with me."
Haruki nodded.
"Do you remember what you said to me after the first video went viral? When you pulled away from everyone?"
"I said I needed space."
"You said you needed to figure out who you were when you weren't just trying to survive."
Haruki remembered now. It had been a conversation in his car, parked outside her apartment building, both of them crying for different reasons.
"I remember."
"Have you figured it out yet?"
The question caught him off guard. "I don't know."
"Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're still trying to survive. Just surviving different things now."
Aya stirred her matcha with a small spoon, the green powder swirling into the milk. "I've been thinking about what you said at the auditorium. About failing Renji. About being silent when you should have spoken up."
"Aya, I—"
"Let me finish." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I've been thinking about it, and I realized something. I failed people too."
Haruki looked at her, surprised.
"I failed you, sometimes. There were times when I could have stood up for you more, could have been braver, could have done more than just be your friend in private. There were times when I chose the easier path, when I let you suffer alone because speaking up would have made my own life harder."
She took a sip of her latte, her hands steady despite the tremor in her voice.
"And I've been wondering if maybe that's just what people do. Maybe we all fail each other, and maybe the brave thing isn't being perfect, it's admitting when we've been imperfect and trying to do better."
"Aya—"
"I'm not asking you to forgive me, because I'm not sure I've forgiven myself yet. But I wanted you to know that I understand now. Why you said what you said. Why you didn't defend yourself or make excuses."
Haruki felt something tight in his chest begin to loosen. "I never blamed you for anything."
"I know. But I blamed myself."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the other customers come and go, students with backpacks and laptops, business people grabbing coffee between meetings, elderly couples sharing pastries and newspapers.
"Can I ask you something now?" Haruki said.
"Of course."
"Do you think I should write the book?"
"What book?"
"My agent says publishers want to give me a book deal. About my story, about bullying, about all of this."
Aya considered this. "Do you want to write it?"
"I don't know. Part of me thinks it could help people. But part of me wonders if it's just another way of making money off my pain."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you can make money and help people at the same time. The question is whether you're writing it because you have something to say, or because someone told you that you should."
"I don't know what I have to say."
"Then maybe that's your answer."
That night, Haruki sat at his kitchen table with a notebook and a pen. He hadn't written by hand in years, but something about the physicality of it felt right. The weight of the pen, the scratch of ink on paper, the way his thoughts had to slow down to match the speed of his writing.
He wrote:
I don't know if I'm ready to write a book. I don't know if I have anything important to say. I don't know if my story matters more than anyone else's story.
But I know I'm tired of being defined by what happened to me. I'm tired of being the bullied kid who got rich, the victim who succeeded, the broken person who got fixed.
I'm tired of being a symbol.
I want to be a person.
He stopped writing and stared at the words on the page. They felt true, but they also felt insufficient. How do you explain the weight of carrying other people's projections? How do you describe the exhaustion of being a living metaphor?
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
"Hi Haruki. This is Renji. I got your number from a mutual friend. I was wondering if we could talk."
Haruki stared at the message for a long time. Then he typed back:
"Of course. When and where?"
"Tomorrow? There's a park near Ueno Station. Shinobazu Pond. 2 PM?"
"I'll be there."
Haruki set down his phone and returned to his notebook. He wrote:
Maybe the story isn't about getting fixed. Maybe the story is about learning to live with the broken parts.
The next day, Haruki arrived at Shinobazu Pond fifteen minutes early. It was a gray afternoon, the sky heavy with clouds that threatened rain but hadn't yet delivered. The pond was surrounded by cherry trees, their bare branches reaching up like fingers toward the overcast sky. In a few months, they would be covered in pink blossoms, and the park would be full of families having picnics and taking photos. But now, in the late autumn, it was quiet and subdued.
Haruki found a bench near the water and sat down to wait. A few ducks paddled across the pond, leaving small wakes behind them. An elderly man was feeding them bread crumbs, ignoring the signs that said not to feed the wildlife.
"Haruki?"
He turned to see Renji approaching, hands in his pockets, expression cautious but not unfriendly. He looked different in daylight, more solid somehow, less like a ghost from the past.
"Renji. Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for agreeing to meet."
They sat on the bench together, leaving space between them, both of them staring out at the water.
"I wasn't sure you'd want to see me," Haruki said.
"I wasn't sure either."
"What changed your mind?"
Renji was quiet for a long moment. "I've been thinking about what you said at the auditorium. About failing me. About being sorry."
"And?"
"And I realized I wanted to hear you say it to me directly. Not to an audience, not to the internet. To me."
Haruki turned to face him. "I'm sorry, Renji. I'm sorry I didn't help you when I could have. I'm sorry I was too scared to speak up. I'm sorry I let you suffer alone."
Renji nodded slowly. "Thank you."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the ducks paddle around the pond. The elderly man had finished feeding them and was walking away, leaving the birds to drift aimlessly across the water.
"Can I ask you something?" Renji said.
"Anything."
"Why didn't you help me? Really. Not the public answer, the real answer."
Haruki considered this. "Because I was terrified. Because I thought if I drew attention to myself, they would hurt me worse. Because I thought if I stayed invisible, maybe they would forget about me."
"Did it work?"
"No. They hurt me anyway."
"Yeah," Renji said. "They hurt me too."
Another silence, this one heavier.
"I transferred schools," Renji said. "Did you know that?"
"I knew you left. I didn't know why."
"My parents found out about the bullying. They were furious, but not at the bullies. At me. For not being strong enough to handle it. For being weak. For embarrassing them."
Haruki felt something cold settle in his stomach. "I'm sorry."
"They moved me to a private school across town. Smaller classes, more supervision. It was supposed to be better."
"Was it?"
"In some ways. The bullying was less obvious. More subtle. But it never really stopped."
Renji picked up a small stone and threw it into the pond. It skipped twice before sinking.
"I used to think about you sometimes," he said. "Wonder what happened to you. Wonder if you were okay."
"What did you think?"
"I thought you were probably still getting hurt. I thought maybe we could have helped each other, if we had been braver."
"Maybe."
"Or maybe we would have just made it worse for both of us."
Haruki considered this. "Do you think it would have made a difference? If I had spoken up?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Probably not. The system was broken, Haruki. It wasn't just about individual choices. It was about a culture that allowed bullying to happen, that turned away when kids were suffering, that blamed victims for not being strong enough."
"But I still could have tried."
"Yes," Renji said. "You could have tried."
The honesty of it hit Haruki like a punch to the stomach. No comfort, no absolution, just the plain truth.
"I want to ask you something," Haruki said. "And I want you to be honest with me."
"Okay."
"Do you think I'm a good person?"
Renji was quiet for a long time. "I think you're a person who did a bad thing. I think you're a person who regrets it. I think you're a person who's trying to do better now."
"Is that enough?"
"I don't know. It's something."
They threw stones into the pond for a while, watching the ripples spread out in concentric circles. The afternoon was growing colder, and the first drops of rain began to fall.
"I should go," Renji said, standing up. "Thank you for meeting me."
"Renji, wait." Haruki stood too. "Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"
Renji looked at him for a long moment. "Don't make this about you," he said finally. "Don't turn this into a story about your redemption. I'm not here to forgive you or to help you feel better about yourself. I'm here because I needed to see if you were really sorry, or just sorry you got caught."
"And?"
"And I think you're really sorry. But that doesn't mean you're forgiven. It just means you're sorry."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because I'm not sure you do. I'm not sure you understand that some things can't be fixed, can't be made right, can't be redeemed. Sometimes sorry is just sorry."
Renji walked away, leaving Haruki standing by the pond in the growing rain.
That evening, Haruki called his agent.
"I've decided about the book," he said.
"Great! I knew you'd come around. When can you start—"
"I'm not going to write it."
Silence on the other end of the line.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I'm not going to write the book. I'm not going to do the documentary. I'm not going to do any of it."
"Haruki, you're making a mistake. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I don't want to be famous for being hurt. Because I don't want to make money off my trauma. Because I don't want to turn my life into a commodity."
"But you could help people—"
"I can help people in other ways."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll figure it out."
His agent was quiet for a moment. "What do you want to do instead?"
"I want to disappear for a while. I want to figure out who I am when I'm not performing my trauma for other people. I want to be normal."
"Normal doesn't pay the bills."
"I have enough money."
"You could have more."
"I have enough."
After he hung up, Haruki sat in his living room in the growing darkness, not bothering to turn on the lights. The city sparkled outside his window, millions of people living their lives, pursuing their dreams, carrying their own traumas and hopes and fears.
He thought about Renji's words: Sometimes sorry is just sorry.
He thought about Aya's question: Have you figured out who you are when you're not trying to survive?
He thought about Miyu's simple wisdom: You're just human. It's harder than it sounds.
He thought about Rina's challenge: Are you reaching out because you think it will help him, or because you think it will help you?
For the first time in months, Haruki felt something approaching peace. Not the peace of resolution, not the peace of forgiveness, but the peace of acceptance. The peace of sitting with discomfort without trying to fix it.
He picked up his phone and started typing:
I want to thank everyone who has reached out over the past few weeks. Your messages of support have meant more to me than I can express.
I also want to address the criticism I've received. Much of it has been fair and necessary. I am not a perfect victim, and I am not a hero. I am a person who was hurt, and who hurt others through my silence and inaction.
I have been offered several opportunities to tell my story in various formats. I have decided to decline all of them. My trauma is not content, my healing is not entertainment, and my mistakes are not a product to be sold.
I am going to step away from public speaking and social media for a while. I need time to figure out who I am when I'm not performing my pain for others. I need time to learn how to be a person instead of a symbol.
To everyone who has shared their own stories with me: thank you for your trust. Your experiences matter, and I hope you find the support and healing you deserve.
To those I have hurt or failed: I am sorry. I know that's not enough, but it's what I have to offer.
To everyone else: be kind to each other. Speak up when you can. Stay silent when you should. Learn the difference.
I don't know what comes next, but I'm ready to find out.
He posted the message and then turned off his phone.
The next morning, Haruki woke up to silence. No notifications, no buzzing, no constant stream of opinions and reactions and demands for his attention. He had disabled all his social media accounts and given his phone to Rina with instructions not to give it back for at least a week.
He made coffee and sat on his balcony, watching the city wake up. The morning light was different somehow, softer, less urgent. He felt like he was seeing it for the first time, or maybe seeing it clearly for the first time in months.
There was a knock at his door.
He opened it to find Miyu standing in the hallway, holding a bag of pastries and two cups of coffee.
"I brought breakfast," she said.
"How did you know I'd be awake?"
"I didn't. I was willing to wait."
They sat at his kitchen table, eating pastries and drinking coffee and not talking about anything important. Miyu told him about her job at the library, about the elderly man who came in every day to read the newspaper and always fell asleep in the same chair. Haruki told her about the ducks at the pond, about the way they paddled in perfect formation across the water.
"What are you going to do now?" Miyu asked eventually.
"I don't know. Maybe nothing for a while."
"Nothing sounds good."
"What about you? What are you going to do?"
"Keep working at the library. Keep reading books. Keep being quiet."
"That sounds good too."
They finished their breakfast in comfortable silence. Miyu helped him clean up, and then she left, promising to come back in a few days with more pastries.
Haruki spent the rest of the day reading. Not articles about himself, not comments or reactions or think pieces, but an actual book. A novel about a woman who inherits her grandmother's house and has to decide whether to keep it or sell it. It was quiet and gentle and had nothing to do with trauma or healing or redemption. It was just a story about a person making a choice.
He read for hours, losing himself in someone else's life, someone else's problems, someone else's small moments of joy and sorrow.
That evening, he cooked dinner for himself. Something simple: rice, vegetables, a piece of fish. He ate slowly, tasting each bite, grateful for the silence and the solitude and the absence of an audience.
Before bed, he wrote in his notebook:
Day one of being normal. It's harder than I expected, but also easier. I keep waiting for something dramatic to happen, but nothing does. I make coffee, I read books, I eat food, I exist. Maybe that's enough.
I think about Renji sometimes. I wonder if he's okay, if he's happy, if he's found peace. I hope he has. I hope he's learned to be normal too.
I think about all the people who are carrying trauma, who are trying to heal, who are learning to be human. I hope they find what they're looking for. I hope they're gentle with themselves.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I'm not afraid of it anymore. I'm just curious.
Maybe that's progress.
Maybe that's enough.
The weeks passed quietly. Haruki settled into a routine that felt both foreign and familiar. He woke up without checking his phone. He made coffee and ate breakfast without reading the news. He went for walks without worrying about being recognized. He read books, watched movies, listened to music, existed without performing existence.
Rina visited often, bringing updates from the outside world that Haruki received with polite interest but no urgency. The internet had moved on to other stories, other controversies, other viral moments of human drama. His name still came up sometimes, but less frequently, with less intensity.
"Do you miss it?" she asked one afternoon as they sat in his living room.
"Miss what?"
"Being important. Being famous. Having people care about what you think."
Haruki considered this. "I thought I would. But I don't think I was ever really famous. I think I was just a convenient symbol for other people's feelings about bullying and trauma and justice. I was a character in their story, not a person living my own life."
"And now?"
"Now I'm just me. It's terrifying and wonderful."
Aya visited too, less frequently but with more intention. She was busy with her own life, her own career, her own journey toward whatever version of herself she was becoming. But she made time to check on him, to make sure he was okay, to remind him that he was still loved even when he wasn't performing.
"You look different," she said during one visit.
"Different how?"
"Calmer. More solid. Like you're actually inhabiting your own body instead of just borrowing it."
"That's a weird way to put it."
"But accurate?"
"Yeah. Accurate."
Miyu was his most frequent visitor, stopping by every few days with books or food or simply her quiet presence. She never asked how he was doing or whether he was happy or what he planned to do next. She just existed alongside him, a reminder that it was possible to be content without being remarkable.
One evening, as they sat on his balcony watching the sunset, she said, "I'm proud of you."
"For what?"
"For choosing to be ordinary."
"Is that something to be proud of?"
"I think it's the hardest thing there is."
Three months after he disappeared from public life, Haruki received a letter. Not an email or a text or a direct message, but an actual letter, handwritten on cream-colored paper and delivered by post.
He opened it carefully, expecting fan mail or criticism or another interview request. Instead, he found a short note from a teacher at a middle school in Osaka:
Dear Haruki,
I wanted to write to thank you for your speech at the university. Not the viral part, but the whole thing. I'm a teacher, and I've been working with kids who are being bullied, and I've been struggling with how to help them.
Your words about silence and complicity really affected me. I realized that I had been failing some of my students by not speaking up more forcefully, by not creating a safer environment for them to report bullying.
I can't change the past, but I've been working to change how I handle these situations going forward. I wanted you to know that your honesty made a difference, at least for me and hopefully for my students.
I hope you're doing well, wherever you are.
Sincerely,Ms. Tanaka
Haruki read the letter three times, then folded it carefully and put it in his desk drawer. He didn't frame it or post about it or share it with anyone. He just kept it, a small reminder that sometimes the most important conversations happen in the quiet spaces between the noise.
That night, he wrote in his notebook:
I thought stepping away from the spotlight would make me irrelevant. I thought if I wasn't performing my trauma, I couldn't help anyone. But maybe the real work happens in the spaces where no one is watching. Maybe the real healing happens when we stop trying to be symbols and start trying to be human.
I don't know if I'll ever be ready to talk publicly about my experience again. I don't know if I'll ever write the book or do the interviews or become the voice for change that people wanted me to be.
But I know I'm becoming the person I was supposed to be all along. Not the victim, not the hero, not the symbol. Just me.
Maybe that's the most radical thing of all.
Six months after his retreat from public life, Haruki made a decision. He enrolled in a part-time social work program at a local university. Not because he wanted to be famous for helping people, but because he wanted to actually help people. Not because he wanted to turn his trauma into a career, but because he had learned something about suffering and healing that might be useful to others.
He didn't announce it publicly. He didn't post about it on social media. He just quietly began the work of learning how to be helpful in ways that didn't require an audience.
His first day of classes, he sat in the back of the room and listened as other students introduced themselves. They talked about their motivations, their goals, their desire to make a difference in the world. When it was his turn, he simply said, "I'm Haruki. I'm here to learn."
After class, a young woman approached him. "Aren't you that guy from the viral video?" she asked.
"I used to be," Haruki said. "Now I'm just a student."
She looked confused, like she wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or impressed.
"Is that weird?" she asked. "Going from being famous to being normal?"
Haruki considered this. "It's the best thing I've ever done."
That evening, he called Rina to tell her about his first day.
"How did it feel?" she asked.
"Like coming home," he said. "Like I finally found the place where I belong."
"In a classroom?"
"In my own life."
A year later, Haruki ran into Kazuki at a coffee shop near the university. They recognized each other immediately, but neither spoke at first. Kazuki looked older, more tired, but also somehow softer around the edges.
Finally, Kazuki approached his table.
"Can I sit?" he asked.
Haruki nodded.
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, both of them staring into their coffee cups.
"I heard you're studying social work," Kazuki said.
"I am."
"That's... unexpected."
"A lot of things have been unexpected."
Kazuki laughed, but it wasn't entirely pleasant. "I bet."
Another silence.
"I want to apologize," Kazuki said. "For what I did at the auditorium. For trying to humiliate you publicly. It was wrong."
Haruki looked at him. "Why did you do it?"
"Honestly? I was angry. I saw you getting all this praise and admiration for surviving something that I helped cause, and I couldn't stand it. I wanted to tear you down."
"And now?"
"Now I realize that tearing you down doesn't build me up. It just makes more wreckage."
Haruki nodded. "I understand anger. I've been angry too."
"At me?"
"At you. At the system. At myself. At the whole situation."
"Are you still angry?"
Haruki considered this. "Sometimes. But not as much. Anger is exhausting."
"Yeah," Kazuki said. "It is."
They finished their coffee in relative peace. As they prepared to leave, Kazuki said, "I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I'm glad you're okay. I'm glad you found a way to be happy."
"I'm glad you're okay too," Haruki said, and meant it.
"I'm not sure I am yet," Kazuki admitted. "But I'm working on it."
"That's all any of us can do."
As Haruki walked home that evening, he thought about the strange circuitous path that had led him to this moment. From victim to viral sensation to voluntary obscurity to student to future social worker. None of it had been planned, none of it had been easy, but all of it had been necessary.
He thought about Renji, who had taught him that some things couldn't be fixed, only accepted. He thought about Aya, who had shown him that even failed relationships could be transformed into something beautiful. He thought about Miyu, who had demonstrated the power of quiet presence. He thought about Rina, who had pushed him to be honest about his motivations. He thought about Kazuki, who had forced him to confront his own complicity.
All of them had been his teachers, even when they hadn't meant to be. Especially when they hadn't meant to be.