Chapter 65. The Heavy Truth

The hospital cafeteria was quieter than usual.

It was mid-morning, and the scent of antiseptic from the corridors clung faintly to the air, mixing uneasily with the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

Yuki and Keiko sat at a corner table near the window, hands wrapped around lukewarm mugs that neither of them had touched.

They had already messaged Toru thirty minutes ago. No reply.

"He's avoiding us again." Keiko muttered, staring blankly at the foam in her latte.

Yuki didn't respond right away. Her eyes were fixed on the hallway just outside, scanning every figure that passed by.

Finally, she said, "No. He's just stalling."

And she was right.

Moments later, Toru entered, noticeably tense.

His hair was messier than usual, and his white coat hung unevenly off his shoulders.

There was a shadow under his eyes that hadn't been there the last time they saw him.

He spotted them quickly but hesitated.

Then, with a sigh, he made his way to their table.

"I knew you two won't stop until I speak." He nodded, his voice quieter than usual.

"Dr. Hasegawa..." Yuki gave him a small smile—strained but polite. "Thanks for coming."

He sat down without asking, folding his hands together on the table. "But I really had a feeling you'd come to me sooner or later."

"We waited." Keiko said carefully. "We didn't want to pressure you. But... Ayaka's not doing well."

Toru winced at her name. "I know."

"She's barely eating. Barely sleeping." Yuki added. "Kazumi says she hasn't left her apartment unless it's for work. And even that's rare."

"She's waiting for him." Keiko said softly. "Still hoping he'll come back."

Toru looked down at the table, silent. His jaw clenched slightly, and his fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against his thigh.

Yuki watched him closely.

"You know something, don't you?"

There was a long pause.

Then he nodded.

"I didn't want to believe it." Toru finally said, voice strained. "But I guess it's time someone told the truth."

Yuki and Keiko leaned forward, hearts in their throats.

Toru took a deep breath.

"Akihiko... left Tokyo for good."

Keiko blinked. "What do you mean left?"

"He resigned from every hospital he was affiliated with. Not just Tokyo Medical Center. Everything. He shut down his private clients. Cut ties with medical boards. It's not just a break—he's severing everything."

Yuki's stomach dropped.

"He's not coming back?" she whispered.

Toru shook his head. "I don't think so."

Keiko looked stunned. "But why? Why would he just... disappear like that?"

Toru's eyes were filled with conflict—regret, guilt, and something darker. "He didn't tell me everything. But I know this much—he said he wasn't fit to stay anymore. That if he stayed, he'd only hurt her."

Yuki's brows furrowed. "Ayaka?"

Toru nodded slowly. "He was afraid. He said... he wasn't good at love. The closer he got to her, the more afraid he became that he'd ruin it. So, he ran."

Keiko's voice was thin. "That doesn't make sense. If he cared, why wouldn't he just try?"

"Because he didn't think he could give her what she deserved." Toru answered bitterly. "He said he loved her too much to stay and ended up hurting her long-term."

Yuki's throat tightened. "So instead, he broke her completely now?"

Toru's face twisted. "I know. It's selfish. He thought it was mercy. But from the outside, it's just cowardice."

He leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands. "He left the country, you know. That's why no one can find him. He's gone."

Yuki's hands trembled slightly. "Do you know where he went?"

Toru shook his head. "No." 

Keiko slammed her palm on the table, startling them. "How could he do that to her?! After everything?! He didn't even leave a note for Ayaka."

Toru's voice cracked. "Because he thought it was the kindest thing. To let her forget. To heal. Without him."

Yuki was silent for a long moment, her heart aching. "She won't heal from this. Not if she keeps waiting."

"That's why I told you." Toru said. "I need you to help her stop waiting. Because he's not coming back, I'm sorry. But she needs to know."

------

That night, Yuki and Keiko told Ayaka everything. They didn't sugarcoat it.

That Akihiko had resigned.

That he'd left Tokyo.

That he didn't even leave a goodbye.

That he believed she'd be better off without him.

That he was never planning to return.

The news hit Ayaka like ice water.

Ayaka sat on the couch, wrapped in the soft gray blanket Akihiko had once folded over her shoulders.

She didn't speak.

Not for minutes.

Not even when Yuki reached for her hand, or when Keiko knelt down in front of her, whispering that they were there for her.

Finally, she looked up.

And smiled.

A small, broken, empty smile.

"I see." she whispered.

Keiko felt her chest twist. "Ayaka... we're so sorry."

Ayaka shook her head slowly. "Don't be. You did the right thing. I needed to hear it."

Yuki gripped her hand tightly. "You're not alone, okay? We're here. Always."

But Ayaka's gaze had already drifted to the window.

Outside, the city lights blinked like distant stars—cold and unreachable.

In her heart, something crumbled.

There was nothing left to wait for.

"Don't shut down." Keiko pleaded softly. "Please. We can get through this together."

Ayaka nodded, but it was empty.

Her gaze wandered to the window, where the city lights twinkled like distant stars—beautiful, unreachable, and indifferent.

"I think I just need to rest." she said quietly, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I'm... tired."

Neither Yuki nor Keiko argued.

They helped her into bed, and stayed by her side until she fell asleep.

But even in slumber, her brows were furrowed, her fingers curled tightly into fists.

------

The next day...

Ayaka hadn't noticed the change.

The lights in the apartment were still off.

Only the faint blue glow of the television lit the space now, casting ghostlike shadows on the walls.

Yuki and Keiko had stayed with her for a while, making sure she ate a few bites, wrapping her in a blanket, quietly cleaning up the dishes she'd left untouched for days.

But eventually, they left—reluctantly, exchanging worried looks as Ayaka insisted she just wanted to rest.

Now she lay sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over her eyes.

Her breathing was slow, shallow.

Her eyes burned from crying, her throat raw from holding in everything she couldn't scream out loud.

She didn't know how long she had been lying there.

Minutes? Hours?

Time didn't move right anymore. Not without him.

The apartment felt too big now. Too quiet.

It echoed with the ghosts of Akihiko's laughter—the rare sound of it, the way it had slipped out when she tripped over her own feet and tried to act like she hadn't.

She could almost hear the low murmur of his voice as he read over her manuscript drafts, or the sound of him moving in the kitchen at night, scolding her for staying up too late.

He had filled the space without trying.

And then vanished without a word.

Her heart ached in a way she couldn't explain. It wasn't the kind of sharp pain you get when something breaks.

No—this was dull, constant, like a heavy weight pressed against her chest, just enough to remind her every second that something was missing.

'He left.'

'He left you.'

Her phone buzzed weakly from the armrest above her head.

Another message from Kei, maybe.

Or Kazumi. Or Kai. She didn't check.

She didn't want to talk.

She didn't want to pretend to be okay.

She wanted to rewind time.

To un-know him.

But even as she thought it, she knew she was lying to herself.

She would never want to forget him.

Even now.

Even if he had hurt her more deeply than anyone ever had.

Because with Akihiko, there were things she hadn't just felt—she had believed.

She had believed his silences were full of meaning.

She had believed his gentleness was deliberate.

She had believed… in them.

And now, that belief was turning into something uglier by the second.

Resentment.

Not toward him. But toward herself.

'You should've known.'

'You should've seen it coming.'

'He was never yours to begin with.'

Her fingers drifted to her chest, where her heart beat sluggishly, still aching like it hadn't yet caught up to the reality of it all.

She sat up slowly, dizzy for a moment, then pushed herself off the couch.

Her legs felt stiff, like they didn't belong to her anymore.

She moved like a shadow of herself, ghosting through her own apartment until she stopped at her bedroom door.

She stared for a long time.

Then opened it.

The room looked exactly as she'd left it the morning he disappeared.

The sheets were still slightly rumpled, the pillow on the right side of the bed still slightly indented where his head used to rest.

She hadn't touched it.

She couldn't.

There was a t-shirt draped on the back of the chair—his. She crossed the room slowly and picked it up.

The scent was faint now, almost gone.

But it was still there.

The clean, cold scent of his cologne.

The one she had grown used to without even realizing.

Ayaka gripped the shirt tightly, pressing it to her chest.

She had shared her quiet moments with him.

Her writing.

Her fears.

He had seen the parts of her she hid from the rest of the world, and for a brief, terrifyingly beautiful moment, she thought he had wanted to stay.

That maybe, even without promises, she could hold onto him.

But maybe that was the cruelest part.

He had stayed.

Just long enough for her to believe.

Tears slipped down her cheeks again, slow and silent.

There were no sobs this time.

Just the kind of quiet crying that comes when you're too tired to fight it anymore.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the shirt still clutched in her hands.

"I would've loved you more..." she whispered to no one.

"Even if you were broken. Even if you pushed me away. I would've stayed."

The wind outside rustled the leaves, tapping faintly against the windowpane.

But no one answered her.

Because the one person she wanted to hear from… wasn't coming back.

She lowered herself onto the bed, curling up on his side, facing the empty space where he used to sleep.

Her fingers traced the wrinkles in the pillowcase, as though doing so would summon some warmth, some proof he had been real.

She didn't remember when sleep took her—only that it felt like slipping beneath a tide, pulled under by grief, where even dreams couldn't reach her anymore.

Ayaka's apartment remained still and quiet, wrapped in a sorrow that words could no longer hold.