Chapter 98. To Be Pulled in the Past Once More

Three years have passed since Akihiko's disappearance.

Time, merciless and relentless, had pushed forward like a river cutting through stone.

Seasons came and went, faces blurred in and out of her life, but the ache in Ayaka's heart remained—a quiet throb, buried deep beneath carefully constructed smiles and deadlines.

In the public eye, she had become unstoppable.

In the solitude of her apartment, she simply survived.

She dove headfirst into her work, as if writing could stitch together the pieces of herself left behind.

Her pen never stopped moving.

Her mind never rested.

Bestselling titles flowed one after another—"The Disappearance of Ms. Bella", "The Mansion Was the Torture House", "Mystery in the Neighborhood"—each tale darker, sharper, more twisted than the last.

The pages dripped with tension, and fans devoured them like lifelines.

It was as if Ayaka had returned to the version of herself that existed before she ever met the Ice Prince.

But that was a lie she told herself to keep breathing.

Inside the conference room of her publishing agency, she sat with a straight back and a calm demeanor, her fingers gently curled around a coffee mug.

Across from her, Daiki Takahashi—her longtime editor and perhaps the only one who dared to toe the line with her these days—scrolled through a tablet, nodding with satisfaction.

"These past few years, your novels have been topping charts consistently." Daiki said, tapping the screen as the graphs of sales spiked dramatically. "You've become the spine of our publishing house, Ayaka."

She gave him a small, dry smile. "I've dedicated myself to writing. At this rate, I might just marry it."

Daiki chuckled. "And what a fruitful marriage that would be."

But the levity in his tone quickly shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he brought up what she had managed to avoid for months.

"Still... the fans keep asking the same question. When are you and Miura going to collaborate? You two have become good friends, haven't you?"

Ayaka's smile faltered for a heartbeat.

Her voice, when she answered, was laced with steel.

"We're friends, yes. But I'm not cut out for collaborations, Mr. Takahashi." She rose from her chair, brushing invisible lint from her blazer, preparing to leave.

Daiki leaned back casually in his seat, watching her with that knowing look that made her skin crawl. "Then how about this—make the main character of your next novel like him."

She stopped.

The air seemed to shift.

Her fingers stiffened, still hovering over the chair's armrest.

"…Like him?" she asked, her voice quieter now. Distant.

"Like Akihiko." Daiki said, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world.

"You know, like the one in Where We Left Off. That emotionally repressed, perfect man? Readers loved that character."

Ayaka slowly turned around, her eyes meeting his. "Akihiko?" she echoed, as if saying the name aloud might crack something inside her.

"Yeah." Daiki tapped the screen again, oblivious—or perhaps not.

"The fans never really moved on from him either. That kind of character sells."

For a moment, she didn't speak.

Her hand moved up, almost without thinking, and lightly touched the necklace resting against her collarbone.

The chain was delicate, the charm small, but it weighed heavily on her chest.

Akihiko had given it to her.

Three years had passed.

Three long years.

And she had never taken it off.

Flashbacks raced through her mind—his silver hair catching the morning light, the way his eyes softened when no one was watching, the way he called her name only when it was just the two of them.

His warmth.

His absence.

She swallowed hard.

"You okay?" Daiki asked, his voice suddenly less businesslike.

Ayaka's expression froze over like winter glass.

Her tone, when she answered, was composed but icy.

"I'm fine. And sure... I'll do that." She turned away from him, heels clicking against the marble floor as she headed for the exit.

"A character like Akihiko. I'll make it happen."

The door closed behind her with a soft "click*, but the pressure in her chest only grew.

She stepped into the hallway, the polished floor gleaming beneath her feet, and finally allowed herself to breathe.

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket.

A message from Keiko: "You okay? You ghosted the group chat again."

She didn't reply.

Instead, she stared out the floor-to-ceiling window at the horizon.

The sky was clouded, uncertain.

Much like her.

A character like Akihiko?

That was easy.

Because she had never stopped writing about him.

Even if she had buried the truth in metaphors, masked it in fiction, and renamed him a dozen times.

He lived in every story.

Every line of longing.

Every ending that never quite ended.

And this time...

She would write him again.

Not just as a character.

But as a confession.

------

Time had a cruel way of moving forward even when the heart refused to.

Seasons came and went, and though Ayaka smiled and laughed and published bestsellers, a part of her still remained suspended in the moment he vanished—like a novel missing its final chapter.

Tonight, though, she allowed herself a rare moment of normalcy.

The rooftop restaurant buzzed with warmth and life.

Lanterns swayed above them in the breeze, casting a golden glow over the round table where her closest friends had gathered.

Glasses clinked, laughter spilled over the music, and the savory aroma of grilled meat and soy glaze floated through the air.

Keiko was in the middle of teasing Kazumi about his questionable fashion choices, while Yuki showed off her latest photo shoot edits on her phone.

Makoto sat beside Ayaka, relaxed and radiant, his green eyes softening every time he looked at her.

Kazumi had just challenged everyone to a spicy ramen contest—naturally, with no intention of losing.

Meanwhile, Takeshi was arguing—again—with Yuki over the accuracy of one of Ayaka's mystery plots.

"I'm telling you..." Yuki huffed, poking his arm, "You misread the twist in 'The Mansion Was the Torture House.' The killer wasn't the butler, it was the pianist!"

"No." Takeshi shot back, grinning. "It was the pianist disguised as the butler. That's different. Pay attention to the details."

Ayaka laughed quietly, soaking in the rare, fleeting peace of being surrounded by people who knew her.

People who stayed.

"It's good to see you like this." Makoto said quietly, leaning in so only she could hear. "I mean it."

Ayaka gave a soft nod. "Thanks… it's rare, but it helps."

Just then, Takeshi's phone buzzed loudly on the table.

He glanced at the screen—and everything about him shifted.

His grin disappeared.

His body tensed, his fingers curling slightly as he answered the call.

"…Yeah?" His voice dropped an octave. "When? …Now?"

He stood up almost immediately, grabbing his jacket with practiced urgency.

"Mori?" Keiko blinked. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go." he said quickly, voice firm but not panicked. "Something came up."

He looked around the table. "I'm sorry. I'll call later."

"Wait, what is it—?" Ayaka asked, but he was already gone, disappearing into the night like smoke trailing off a candle flame.

A strange silence settled over the table.

Yuki was the first to speak. "That… wasn't normal."

"Nope." Kazumi agreed, frowning. "He never skips dessert."

Makoto leaned forward, brows furrowed. "He looked shaken."

Ayaka's fingers instinctively brushed the silver chain around her neck—the one Akihiko gave her.

She still wore it every day, hidden under her clothes.

A secret piece of her past she couldn't let go of.

Wouldn't.

Daiki's words from earlier came rushing back. "Then make the main character like Akihiko."

A part of her wanted to scream at him for saying it.

Another part…wanted to obey.

She picked up her wine glass but didn't drink.

Her gaze lingered on the spot Takeshi had just vacated, heart pounding with unease.

"I'm writing him again." she murmured softly.

Kazumi glanced over. "Who?"

She met his eyes, and though her lips curved into a gentle smile, there was something sorrowful behind it—like the ache of a wound that never quite healed.

Yuki looked between them. "Ayaka…"

Keiko leaned in, concerned clearly in her expression. "Is this about—?"

Ayaka shifted forward in her seat with sudden urgency, her movements sharp enough to break the flow of conversation.

The name lingered unspoken on everyone's lips, like a ghost haunting the edge of their table.

She could feel it—him—creeping into the space again, as he always did when their laughter faded and the silence grew too thick.

Ayaka's heart clenched, but her voice came out light, too light, too forced.

"Anyway!" she blurted, her smile wide but brittle.

"The Author's Night is coming up, and I need your help—desperately. I still haven't picked a gown. You guys have to help me choose!"

The silence that followed was brief, but it carried weight.

They all heard the crack in her voice.

They all saw how she pivoted the moment the conversation neared him.

No one said it aloud, but it was clear—Ayaka was running from the shadows again.

Keiko lowered her glass and exchanged a subtle glance with Yuki.

Kazumi paused mid-bite. Makoto said nothing, but the way he was watching her… it wasn't lost on anyone.

"Let's scroll for some gowns now!" Yuki said quickly, her tone rising with practiced cheer.

She whipped out her phone with a flourish, trying to mask the heaviness with enthusiasm. "We're not letting you show up in anything less than iconic, Ayaka."

"Scoot in here!" Keiko demanded, patting the seat beside her.

"I refuse to let you pick another plain black gown just because it's 'mysterious and slimming.' This year, we're going bold!"

Ayaka chuckled softly and stood up, squeezing between them.

She forced herself to lean into the lightness, to drown in the distraction.

As the phone screen filled with satin, sequins, and flowing chiffon, she nodded and gave input when asked.

But her fingers curled into her lap, fidgeting with the chain around her neck—thin, delicate silver that Akihiko had given her three years ago.

Makoto remained quiet, a soft shadow against the backdrop of the restaurant's warm golden lighting.

The buzz of surrounding tables, the clink of glasses and plates, all seemed to dull as his gaze remained fixed on Ayaka.

She looked beautiful, as always, but there was a weariness to her beauty now.

Like a rose growing through frost—still blooming, still resilient, but carrying the quiet ache of survival.

Beside Makoto, Kazumi finally broke the silence, handing over a freshly grilled barbecue skewer with a lopsided grin.

"You're staring again." Kazumi muttered just low enough for Makoto to hear. "She's doing better these days..."

Makoto took the barbecue, eyes never leaving Ayaka. "You're right."

Kazumi's voice dropped further. "He's not coming back. You know that."

Makoto's jaw tightened, just for a second, before he gave a small nod. "Yeah." he said quietly. "And I'm not walking away."

Kazumi studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Good."

Back at the other end of the table, Keiko was in the middle of loudly rejecting a pastel pink gown that Yuki had shown. "She'll look like a lost bridesmaid! Ayaka, no. We're aiming for a queen, not a guest at a garden wedding."

Ayaka laughed—genuine, this time. "You really should have been a fashion critic."

"No, I should be your stylist-slash-bodyguard-slash-hype woman." Keiko said proudly, throwing her arm around Ayaka's shoulders.

"I'd wear black shades and make cryptic comments to reporters like, 'The midnight muse only wears velvet when the moon demands it.'"

Yuki nearly choked on her drink from laughing. "Wait! That's actually so good, write that down."

Laughter blossomed across the table, wrapping them in warmth again.

For a moment, Ayaka let herself enjoy it.

She leaned into Keiko, nodding and laughing, her eyes lighting up with something that had been missing for far too long.

But even as they flipped through gown after gown, her fingers found the necklace again.

Her smile faltered just a touch.

Makoto noticed.

He always noticed.

And while the others scrolled and laughed, he remained steady, silent, holding the weight of what Ayaka didn't say.

Above them, beyond the glow of the city and the lights of the restaurant, the stars blinked quietly—soft pinpricks of silver in a deep navy sky.

Beautiful.

Distant.

Watching.

Ayaka's laugh echoed one more time, but it was hollow at the end.

She turned her face slightly, so the others wouldn't see her eyes grow glossy.

Three years.

And yet, the shadow of him never left her.

Something shifted in the air—too subtle for words, but enough to make Makoto straighten slightly, like a cold breeze had swept across his spine.

Far beyond that lively table, far beyond the city lights…

A storm might come.