Years. It felt like a lifetime. Or maybe, a collection of lifetimes, all stacked precariously one on top of the other, held together by nothing but the fragile thread of my own memory. The chaotic symphony of my old room, with its stale ramen scent and the manic whir of overloaded processors, has been replaced by the quiet, sterile hum of a high-rise office. My once precarious stack of monitors is now a sleek, ergonomic command center, gleaming under the soft, recessed lighting. I'm a senior developer now, a respected name in cybersecurity. "Kaito-san," they call me, with a deference that still feels alien. I even manage to tie my own shoelaces most days without tripping. Progress, I suppose.
The irony isn't lost on me. All that brute-force hacking, all those sleepless nights spent tearing through firewalls, all the chaotic brilliance I unleashed on an unsuspecting digital world… it all boiled down to this. Legitimate work. Turns out, the universe needed a dumb genius to clean up its messes, even if my biggest mess was myself. I channeled every ounce of that obsessive energy, every shard of that fractured focus, into code. Complex algorithms, network architecture, quantum encryption – it all made sense. More sense than multiplying eight by seven, anyway. That still trips me up. My office, minimalist and gleaming, still carries a faint, phantom scent of stale caffeine, a personal signature I haven't quite managed to shed. It's organized, yes, but beneath the surface, it's still just as chaotic as the inside of my head.
People tell me I'm successful. That I've got a bright future. They don't know about the ghosts I carry, the silent film reels of a thousand erased realities playing on loop behind my eyes. They don't see the shadows that cling to my peripherals, the momentary glitches in my own vision that are just echoes of a reality I shattered. I smile, I nod, I offer witty, sarcastic remarks – the old Shou is still there, buried deep, a coping mechanism. But the laughter feels hollow, an echo in an empty chamber.
"Do I have a girl, you ask?" I lean back in my absurdly expensive office chair, the leather sighing softly. The city sprawls outside my window, a glittering tapestry of lights, each one a life I once, unwittingly, played with. "Not in a million years, buddy. Not even close. My dating profile would just say: 'Fluent in quantum causality. Experienced in accidentally causing localized reality collapses. Haunted by the ghost of a perfect girl from an erased timeline. Excellent at chess, terrible at small talk. Seeks… nothing, actually.' Yeah, that'd go over real well, wouldn't it?" I chuckle, a dry, humorless sound. "Honestly, I still don't have any attraction to girls. It's not that I don't want to. everyone else just feels… too real, I guess. Too solid. Too simple."
The world is stable now. The glitches are gone. No clocks skipping hours, no erratic weather, no people freezing mid-sentence. The universe is humming along, unburdened. And Airi… Airi is okay. That's the only thing that matters. I don't see her, not truly. I can't risk it. But I see the news, sometimes. A blurb about a local art exhibit, a photo of a community event. She's living. Thriving. Creating. Her life, unmarred by the impossible choices I had to make. That's enough. It has to be. My chest aches with a familiar, dull throb, a constant companion. It's the ache of a heart full of memories no one else shares, a love that exists only in the solitary confines of my own mind.
The air conditioning hums softly in my office, a constant, low drone. It's almost 10:00 PM. Time for a break. A convenience store run, same as always. Some instant ramen, a questionable energy drink. My life has changed, but some habits die hard. I grab my worn wallet, the familiar weight a small comfort, and head for the elevator. The metallic ding echoes in the silent hallway as the doors slide open.
The convenience store is a familiar haven of fluorescent light and artificial sounds. The rhythmic clatter-clatter-clatter of a claw machine in the corner, the soft beep of the register, the distant crackle of a radio playing pop music. I grab my usual: a spicy instant ramen cup, the kind that burns on the way down, and a ridiculously sweet melon soda. I'm almost at the checkout, scrolling idly through some cybersecurity news on my phone, when a soft voice, like the gentle chime of a forgotten melody, cuts through the mundane sounds of the store.
"Excuse me?"
I freeze. My hand, midway to grabbing a packet of gummies, stops. The voice. It's soft, lilting, accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible scent of cherry blossoms, a ghost of spring in the synthetic air. My heart, which I thought had forgotten how to race, begins a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. I turn, slowly, almost dreading what I'll see.
And there she is. Airi. Her long hair, a shade lighter now, flows around her shoulders. Her eyes, those beautiful, warm-chocolate eyes, crinkle at the corners, not with recognition, but with a gentle curiosity. She looks impossibly bright, more vibrant, more radiantly joyful than I've ever seen her. The universe, unburdened by my interference, has allowed her to flourish.
"You… you look familiar," she says, a faint, sweet smile curling her lips. She's holding a small, vibrant green matcha latte and a wobbly, caramel-topped pudding. My breath catches in my throat. "I think… I saw you from my dream."
A thousand unspoken words, a thousand erased realities, clamor in my mind. My throat feels thick, tight with emotion. My usual witty retort, a lifetime of rehearsed perfection, almost spills out. But I resist. For her. Just a final, small piece of me, for her. I manage a faint, knowing, bittersweet smile, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that defied even time.
"Oh?" I manage, my voice a low, rough whisper. The sound of my own voice, so foreign, cracks the perfect facade I'd so carefully built. I try to inject a sliver of my old, carefree sarcasm. "Did I... did I look handsome?"
A soft, genuine giggle escapes her, a sound like tiny bubbles popping in my chest. Her eyes, those captivating, innocent eyes, meet mine fully. "Yeah!" she says, her smile broadening, unburdened, beautifully simple. "You really did!"
And then, as quickly as it began, it's over. She blushes, a faint pink dusting her cheeks, and turns to the checkout. I stand there, rooted to the spot, watching her. The cashier scans her items, she pays, and then she turns and walks out into the night, a bright, fleeting apparition. I pay for my ramen, my melon soda, my gaze fixed on the empty spot where she stood. Then I follow, my steps heavy, leaving the convenience store, separating our ways, just like fate intended.
"It's over."
Not in the dramatic, world-ending kind of way. Not in the way where the music swells and the credits roll. Just… over.
Six hundred and thirty-five loops. [He chuckles dryly.] I counted. Every single one. I wrote them down, like a pathetic high score list. And I got better at it, too. At living. At… loving you.
And I'd think… 'Yeah. This is it. This is the loop I'm keeping.'
[His voice cracks.] But it never was. You'd always… go. Not always the same way, but always. Like the universe had your name written on a dartboard, and every time I yanked the dart out, it just picked a new spot to throw.
You know the cruelest part? The more I tried to save you, the more I started loving you. Every reset made me better at finding the words you wanted to hear, the little things that made you laugh. Every loop… I got to know you more.
But you never got to know me. Not the me that counted six hundred and thirty-five goodbyes.
And when it came down to it… when I realized the only way to save you was to give you a life without me… I didn't hesitate. Because I'd rather live with the ghost of you than see your ghost in the street.
[Long silence. He stares at the sky.]
So here we are. Six hundred and thirty-five loops later. And for the first time… I'm not going back.
[His voice lowers to a whisper.] You won't remember me. But every version of me will remember you.
Six hundred and thirty-five loops… and I'd live them all over again, even if the ending never changed.