Unhealed

The door closed. Slowly.

Feitan didn't move.

He stayed there.

Standing.

Staring at the emptiness she had taken with her.

Ayumi.

She had come.

With the kitten in her arms.

With a steady voice.

With eyes… too clear. Too real.

"I think he's yours."

No accusation.

No tremble.

No revenge.

Just a gesture. A moment of contact.

Feitan turned.

Behind him, the kitten was sniffing the floor, circling the table like it was trying to put down roots again.

As if nothing had happened.

But inside him…

something had.

Feitan sat down.

Hands in his lap.

Eyes fixed on the wall.

His chest was still, but inside…

a dull noise.

Not a heartbeat.

Not a breath.

Something worse:

movement.

Ayumi had come.

Not to ask for forgiveness.

Not to cry.

Not to accuse him.

She had come to return something.

To care.

For something fragile.

For something that belonged to him.

Feitan didn't understand.

It shouldn't have been possible.

After everything he had done.

After the pain.

The blood.

The fear.

She was still capable of a kind gesture.

For him.

Or maybe, damn it…

despite him.

He said nothing.

Didn't touch the cat.

Didn't stand up.

But his gaze faltered.

Just slightly.

Like a blade on the verge of breaking.

For the first time in his life…

Feitan couldn't name what he was feeling.

It wasn't weakness.

It wasn't anger.

It wasn't even desire.

It was a crack.

A fracture in silence.

And that crack had a name.

Ayumi.

She didn't love him.

She didn't hate him.

But she had seen him.

And she hadn't run away.

Feitan stood up.

Walked to the window.

Looked toward the house across the street.

She was no longer in sight.

She had gone back in.

But there was a light on.

A window open.

A possibility.

And he, in the dark, began to long.

Not for a life.

Not for redemption.

Only…

just one more time,

her eyes on him.

---Ayumi...---

Ayumi walked down the stairs with a light step.

She wasn't laughing, she wasn't running, but the way she moved spoke of relief.

That day, she had fixed her hair more carefully than usual.

She wore her favorite sweater — the soft beige one that slid just slightly over her hands.

She was waiting for someone.

A boy.

Yuki.

A classmate

They had been texting for weeks.

Never a real date — until now.

But today — today something inside her had said:

"Go."

When he arrived in front of her house, on his bike, with a shy smile and a quiet voice, Ayumi did something she hadn't done in a long time:

She smiled.

With her whole face.

With all her eyes.

She climbed onto the bike and wrapped her arms around his back.

They rode off, slowly.

She didn't look back.

She didn't know someone, from far away, had seen everything.

Feitan was motionless.

On a rooftop, binoculars to his eyes.

The wind moved his hair, but he didn't even notice.

That smile.

That small, light gesture.

The way she had held onto that boy.

A part of him burned.

Not with jealousy — but with exclusion.

With reality.

She was returning to life.

And he… wasn't.

That evening, he should've felt triumphant.

It had been a big job.

A warehouse.

A lot of money. A lot of blood.

Exactly the kind of night that usually made him feel "alive."

But not this time.

During the whole operation — through the shots, the screams, the terrified eyes, the smell of iron —he couldn't shake one image from his mind:

Her, looking at him.

Not as a killer.

Not as a victim.

But as a human being.

And then again:

Her, smiling at someone else.

Feitan felt the emptiness open in him like a thin, silent wound.

Again.

He returned home late at night.

Hands dirty, jacket stained, breath still fast from the run.

But inside, something was still.

Restless.

Silent.

The kitten was sleeping near the door.

He looked at it, didn't touch it.

He took off his gloves, his weapons.

He washed his hands for a long time.

Longer than usual.

Then he sat at the table.

And stayed there.

Still.

Thinking.

Struggling.

He shouldn't.

He didn't want to.

But he did.

The second gesture.

Against his nature.

Against everything he had learned to be.

He took paper and pen.

He wrote just a few words.

Stiff words. Awkward ones.

But honest.

The truth, bare.

He folded the page.

Placed it inside a small box.

The same one where she had found the photo.

He stepped outside.

In silence.

Slipped down the path.

Left it in front of her door.

And disappeared again.

---Ayumi...---

It had been a wonderful evening.

Ayumi still had sand on her shoes and the scent of vanilla on her fingers.

She had eaten ice cream.

Laughed hard at the fair, letting the wind mess up her thoughts.

She had walked along the beach beside Yuki, without speaking for long stretches — and yet, it had never felt like silence.

Yuki had been perfect.

Kind.

Discreet.

Present.

He had even kissed her hand at the end.

Not as a gesture of love —

But of respect.

And Ayumi, with a full heart, had thought that maybe, yes…

she could really start living again.

Then she looked up.

She saw it there.

The box.

Small. Simple.

Placed with care in front of her house door.

Exactly like the first time.

Her pupils dilated.

Her mouth went dry in an instant.

Her fingers clenched around her bag strap.

Cold.

In her heart.

In her chest.

Under her skin.

"No..."

She looked around.

Quickly.

Eyes to the right, to the left. Above. Behind.

No one.

But he was there.

She was sure of it.

He was always there.

Hidden where her eyes couldn't reach.

She went inside.

Hands tight.

Breath short.

<< Everything okay, sweetheart? >>

her mother's voice from the kitchen.

Ayumi gave a fake smile.

<< Yeah... I'm going to my room. >>

She closed the door behind her.

Placed the box on her bed.

Looked at it the way you look at a ticking bomb.

She sat.

Her fingers were trembling.

Not from fear.

But from memory.

Slowly, she opened the lid.

Inside, a folded sheet of paper.

Nothing else.

She unfolded it.

Smoothed it with her fingers.

Her eyes rushed over the lines — hungry, uneasy.

The handwriting was stiff.

Precise.

Slightly crooked, as if forced to stay between the lines.

The words were few.

Dry.

Almost sharp.

"I don't know how to do this.

But I saw it.

When I looked at you, I felt something that doesn't belong to me.

I hated it.

I still hate it.

But it stays.

I don't want you.

But I think of you.

You'll never get from me what you're looking for.

But know this — you stayed.

Where no one else gets in."

– F.

Ayumi's hands trembled.

She put the paper down.

Folded it slowly.

Closed it back inside the box, as if trying to trap that whole world in there.

She set it on her nightstand.

Then… stood up.

She went to the window.

Drew the curtains.

Looked outside.

Nothing.

No one.

But she knew.

She knew.

That somewhere,

in the shadow between rooftops and windows,

he was watching.

Still.

And inside her, something cold and sweet slid down her spine.

Not fear.

Not attraction.

Understanding.

She was alive.

And seen.

And chosen.

By someone who would never know how to love her.

But who, in a distorted way,

was choosing her anyway.

***

The letter stayed there, on her nightstand.

But it wouldn't leave her alone.

The words had carved themselves in.

I don't want you. But I think of you.

It was the middle of the night, and the house was asleep.

Ayumi got up quietly.

Opened her notebook.

A blank page.

Her fingers trembled slightly, but her mind was clear.

She had to respond.

Not for him.

For herself.

She wrote slowly.

Each word weighed like drops in a glass long overflowing.

"I'm not here to heal you.

I don't want to save you.

But I am real.

And you broke me.

And yet, you think of me.

Why?

I don't hate you. But I don't forgive you.

I just want to know if there's something inside you that still breathes.

I'm not looking for you.

But if you keep hiding…

then I'll stop looking."

– Ayumi

She folded the paper.

Sealed it carefully in a plain envelope.

Went outside.

The night was silent, thick.

The streetlights slept. The houses too.

All but one.

His villa.

One window still had its light on.

Ayumi placed the envelope by the door.

She didn't knock.

Didn't look up.

She returned home with a heart pulsing with confusion.

With fear.

With something ancient and nameless.

---Feitan...---

The light was still on.

Not by accident.

Feitan hadn't been able to turn it off.

Not since he'd left that damned letter.

He had written.

He had admitted.

He had felt.

And now his skin burned.

As if every cell had realized the betrayal:

You showed a crack.

You needed something.

He hated that crack.

But more than that…

he hated the thought that she might leave.

Taken.

Stolen.

Lost.

Like everything else.

Feitan stood.

Went to the window.

He saw her.

Ayumi.

In silence.

Standing by his door.

Leaving something.

She didn't look back.

Didn't hesitate.

Feitan didn't breathe until she was gone.

He went downstairs.

Opened the door.

Picked it up.

A letter.

Folded with care.

Not threatening.

Not pleading.

Just… present.

He read it standing up, his heart beating slow and deep.

Each word like a strike to the cage in his chest.

"I don't hate you. But I don't forgive you."

"I just want to know if there's something inside you that still breathes."

Feitan closed his eyes.

He had seen the moment.

Her, as a little girl, watching him from the villa long ago.

Her, not long ago, with the cookies.

The smile.

He never should have scorned her.

Not like that.

Not her.

And now…

he wanted her.

Not just as an obsession.

Not just as prey.

He wanted her close.

Alive.

For him.

But inside…

the hatred didn't go away.

The void didn't fill.

And still…

he knew.

That if he didn't move now,

others would take her away.

Yuki.

Life.

Time.

Feitan touched his chest.

There was no pain.

But something far more dangerous:

Desire.

Presence.

Uncertainty.

And for a man like him…

it was almost like dying