Chapter 19 — Morning Comes, Whether You Want It or Not
The morning light crept in like an uninvited guest — soft, slow, indifferent to the ache buried deep in Shinichi's chest.
His eyes fluttered open, lashes clinging together from dried tears. For a moment, he didn't move. The ceiling above looked just the same — pale, with small cracks at the corners like fragile veins in the sky. But somehow, everything felt different.
He had cried himself to sleep.
And now, the world had the audacity to go on.
The silence pressed against his ears, louder than any noise. His futon felt cold where it should've held warmth. The pillow beneath him was still damp. The walls looked the same, but somehow… lonelier.
He sat up slowly. Not because he was rested — he wasn't. But because staying down felt even worse.
His body ached from how tightly he'd curled into himself. His breath came out ragged, almost hesitant. Like even his lungs were uncertain if it was worth breathing today.
His schoolbag sat untouched in the corner. His uniform was folded neatly from the night before, waiting like some loyal servant that didn't know its master had broken. But he couldn't bear to touch it.
The truth was…
He didn't want to go.
Not today. Maybe not ever.
He moved like a sleepwalker to the window and pulled back the curtain just enough to peek through.
Outside, the street was already alive. Students in uniform walked past, their laughter echoing faintly. A mother adjusted her son's backpack. A group of girls giggled behind their hands. A boy zipped by on his bicycle, hair wind-swept, carefree.
It was a different world.
One he used to belong to.
One that now moved on without him.
He rested his forehead against the glass. It was cool, grounding, almost like a quiet slap to remind him:
You're still here. Even if it hurts.
But he didn't feel here.
He didn't feel anywhere.
A voice inside him — quiet, but cruel — whispered:
Why don't you just stay home? Skip class. Skip the noise. No one will notice. No one cares.
For a moment, he almost listened.
But then another voice echoed — faint, distant — like a ghost from another life:
"Some things you want… you just have to learn to let go of, someday."
His grandfather's words.
They came back now, not like comfort, but like a hand resting on his shoulder. Steady. Quiet. There, even when the world wasn't.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Not to block out the light, but to hold the tears back.
Not again.
Not so soon.
He shuffled toward his desk and pulled out his chair. He sat down, staring at the blank notebook page open in front of him.
For some reason, he picked up a pen.
He didn't know why.
Maybe because if he didn't do something, he'd break.
The ink scratched softly across the page.
"I don't know how to stop hurting."
He stared at the words for a long time.
Then, beneath it, he wrote:
"It wasn't just Megumi. It was how she made me feel — like maybe I wasn't so invisible. Like I mattered."
His hand hovered above the page for a while. Then he wrote again:
"But I think… it's time I let her go."
His chest tightened.
It hurt. God, it hurt.
But it was true.
He loved her.
He still did.
But loving her didn't mean clinging to a version of her that only existed in his daydreams.
It meant accepting who she really was.
What she wanted.
Even if it wasn't him.
He placed the pen down gently and sat back in his chair.
There was a strange stillness in the room now. Like the silence had changed shape. Not as heavy. Just… quiet. Honest.
A different kind of weight.
He stood up and walked to the mirror. His reflection stared back — pale, hollow-eyed, but not broken.
Not completely.
But He had made a decision now.
He would support Megumi.
Even if it was from the background.
Even if she never saw him the same way.
Even if it tore at something inside him every time she smiled at someone else.
Because love…
Real love…
Wasn't about being chosen.
It was about wanting someone to be happy — even if it wasn't with you.
He reached for his uniform and slowly changed — buttoning each piece like armor. His face looked tired. But his eyes…
His eyes looked like someone who had lost something —
And chosen, somehow, to keep walking anyway.