Facing Reality

 A flash of light blinks before her eyes—then vanishes.

 She sits curled up, arms wrapped around her knees, feeling herself drift like a fetus in a womb. Yet the darkness surrounding her is absolute.

 She doesn't know how long she has been adrift—only that her body feels light, and air bubbles float lazily past her.

 Suddenly, her stomach twists in agony—so intense it steals her breath. Some kind of water surges into her mouth, nose, ears. She tries to cough it out, but only bubbles escape her lips. Her limbs thrash violently, yet she continues sinking, deeper and deeper into the darkness.

 Just let it be… none of it matters anymore…

 She is about to surrender herself completely when a hand grips her arm.

 Strong—unyielding—it yanks her upwards through the depths.

A blinding white light flares across her vision. The arms holding her tighten, offering her something—something warm to lean on.

 She looks up, trying to see who it is. But all she sees is a silhouette against the brilliance—indistinct, out of reach.

 Then comes a voice—gentle, warm, painfully familiar.

 "If one day I have to leave… would you be sad?"

 She has heard this before. And yet her anger surges. Her voice trembles.

 "… You idiot. You're the worst…"

 "Shhh… I didn't want this either."

 His hand strokes her hair, fingers threading gently through her scalp. Her heart clenches tighter.

 She cries out, unable to hold back the tears.

 "You said… after high school, we'd tell our parents about us. Then why are you leaving?"

 "I hate you… I hate you…"

 Her head buries itself into his chest, desperate to cling to every last bit of warmth. She wants to beg, to scream, to claw at him so he'll never leave—maybe even forever. But she hates the world more for tearing them apart.

"Yuna… Listen."

 "She's taking us to Tokyo—my mother and I. To live with that man—the one I told you about. Her lover."

 "She's sick. And my brother too. It's just me now…"

 His voice wavers behind its softness, pain straining every word. Yet his arms pull her even closer, enveloping her.

 "She says everything will be better in Tokyo. We'll be taken care of. Things will change…"

 "But… will you change too?"

 He pauses. His hand slides from her hair down to her cheek, gently brushing it.

 "I don't know. But I promise—I'll call you often. You'll see then… if I've changed."

 "You'd better," she sobs, just slightly relieved.

 "Don't make me wait too long… You'd better reply fast."

 And still, her tears flow, warm down her cheek. Something soft presses against her face—a kiss, brushing away the drops. That softness slides lower, tracing her jaw… then pauses.

 He finds her lips.

 She shuts her eyes. His thumb caresses her cheek. Their breaths mingle. His kiss is gentle, like a cherry blossom kissing the surface of still water. Calm. Cool. Pure.

 If only things could stay like this… Wouldn't that be happiness?

 If this is a dream, she wishes never to wake.

 If this is a memory, she wishes never to return to the present.

 Bubbles float upward—more and more—carrying him away.

She reaches for him. But he slips through her fingers. Darkness swallows everything.

 Terror and despair yank her downward once more—this time even deeper than before.

…

Damp.

Hot.

 Sweat trickles down her body. A cold cloth touches her forehead.

 She stirs, trying to shake it off.

 No… don't go…

The warmth vanishes. What comforts her for a moment is gone, replaced by a hollow chill. She tries to grasp it—anything.

"Yuna…?"

A voice.

She startles awake.

"Yuna?"

Yuna bolts upright, disoriented. Cold sweat drenches her skin. She reaches for her forehead—and knocks off the warm cloth. Hiroki kneels beside the sofa, watching her with concern.

He rises, gently supporting her.

"You've got a fever," he murmurs. "Lie back down."

He helps ease her down. Her body is frail as dry leaves. Her eyes stare blankly at him as he places the compress back on her forehead. The nightmare still grips her—she can't tell dream from reality.

She whispers faintly:

"Ryuse—… Hiroki?"

He tucks her hair behind her ear, meeting her dazed eyes. A sting of sorrow prickles beneath his skin.

"It's me. You're trembling."

"No…"

She trembles harder, shrinking into herself.

"Why…?"

"Why what?"

She doesn't reply. Covering her face, her mind spirals.

Why? Why what? Why… wasn't it him?

Hiroki stands up, giving her space. He leaves briefly, then returns with medicine and a glass of water. She takes the pill silently. It lodges in her throat, reluctant to go down. After swallowing, she dabs at her mouth and finally asks in a faint voice:

"Didn't you have work today?"

"I was done," Hiroki sighs.

 "Takano-san asked me to check on you since you were absent and didn't inform anyone. Nobody knew where you were. When I arrived… you were unconscious. Your fever was over 39°C."

Yuna blinks, stunned. Her mind reels. She tries to sit up, but he gently pushes her back.

"How did you get in…?"

"The door wasn't locked."

His voice is calm, his eyes shadowed. He sits beside her, pausing as if to say more.

"Actually… I come to show you something on—"

He stops. Her mind isn't in the room.

 She turns away, curling onto her side. Everything burns—like invisible fire creeping through every cell. Yet she shivers under the blanket, chilled to the bone.

If it were Ryusei, he would've rushed her to the hospital immediately.

Doctors always make her feel better. Ryusei always cares—pays the bills, fetches medicine, watches over her.

Everyone has their own way of showing care. Hiroki's way doesn't surprise her—but somehow, it feels strange.

Perhaps because Ryusei has never done these things himself.

Hiroki remains silent, choosing not to mention Ryusei or press her with questions. He quietly shelves what he came to say.

 Instead, he stays by her side the entire day, watching over her as she rests. The apartment is quiet, filled only with the soft rhythm of her breathing and the faint sound of Hiroki's footsteps as he moves about the room.

 He cares for her wordlessly. When Yuna feels nauseous, he doesn't hesitate to hold the bowl for her, cleaning everything up afterward without complaint.

Later, he cooks a simple bowl of rice porridge and places it near her, letting her eat on her own. He doesn't want to make her feel uncomfortable—he just stays, quietly attentive to every small shift she makes.

Whenever Yuna drifts off to sleep, Hiroki sometimes pulls out her favorite books or magazines and reads them aloud in a low voice. He remembers how much she adores romance novels—so he chooses Hana Yori Dango, the one that used to make both of them giggle at its sweet, silly love story and fall silent during the heavier, more emotional moments.

That evening, when she finally manages to sit up, Hiroki helps her from the couch to the bedroom with patient hands.

"Don't worry about anything. Let me take care of it," he murmurs gently.

Her fever has finally begun to subside. Her cheeks, once pale, are now tinged with a healthy flush, and she seems a bit more present.

Even so, she sits silently at the kitchen table, lost in thought. She doesn't go to work. She doesn't leave the house. No one comes to see her.

 Hiroki places a washed bowl on the cabinet, turns off the faucet, and dries his hands with a towel. He then walks over to the table where Yuna is sitting and immediately notices something troubling on her face.

Her phone buzzes lightly on the table. She doesn't react.

 A glance from Hiroki catches the message flashing across the screen:

 I'm not coming home tonight. Eat without me.

 The sender: Ryusei.

 A shadow flickers across Hiroki's eyes, but he keeps his voice neutral.

 "You husband texted. He says he won't be home tonight."

 Yuna blinks, as if waking up, and snatches the phone from the table. She skims the message and shuts her eyes, sniffing quietly.

 "Let him be."

 "Sure. Let him be," Hiroki replies, pretending to turn away—but she stops him.

 "Wait... Don't go."

 "You seem better. Shouldn't I leave now?" he asks softly.

 Yuna shakes her head. She doesn't know what she wants—only that she doesn't want to be alone. Her hand clutches the hem of his shirt. Then, as if recalling something—

 "You said... there was something you wanted to tell me, didn't you?"

 "Yeah," he admits. "I've been meaning to talk to you for a while."

 Seeing her genuinely curious, Hiroki pulls out a chair and sits across from her. His face grows serious, brows knitting in quiet tension.

 His hand scratches the back of his neck, then runs across his face, finally settling on the pocket of his jeans, where he retrieves a small cigarette box and a lighter.

 The sound of the flame crackling at the tip of his cigarette slices through the stillness between them. Yuna props her chin on her hand, watching him carefully, anxiety simmering beneath her calm.

 Is this about her husband?

 About himself?

 Or… about her?

 The web between the three of them is the only thing that comes to mind. If there is someone else involved… who could possibly shake Hiroki up like this?

He inhales, then holds the cigarette between his fingers.

 "Has anything strange been happening at your place lately?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

 Yuna swallows.

 "What do you mean?"

 "Like… signs of a break-in? Stuff moved around? Things stolen or broken? Weird noises in the house? Dirty footprints on the floor? Lights turning on or off by themselves…?"

 He lists off questions, each more unsettling than the last. Yuna struggles to follow. The more he speaks, the more bizarre it sounds—like something out of a crime novel involving some deranged stalker.

 Her neighborhood is peaceful, her apartment secure. She tries to make sense of what he's implying.

 If anything in her house is misplaced, it's probably just her own carelessness. She often forgets to switch off lights, leaves clothes scattered on the bed, or lets food sit out too long. It's easier to believe in her own forgetfulness than to imagine someone has actually snuck in.

 "Not really…"

 She bites her lip, thinking hard. "I mean… I've been really forgetful lately. I misplace things a lot. Sometimes I leave for work and have to come back just to search through the whole place again."

 "But are you sure it's just you?" he asks, voice quieter now.

 "Y-yeah, it's me… you know, I've been tired. Maybe just temporary brain fog or something."

 She gives a strained smile—awkward, tense. Hiroki catches it instantly.

 He questions her, stern like a detective.

 "Does Ryusei know about this?"

 "No. He's barely ever home. And… I'd rather he didn't see how scatterbrained I've become."

 "I see," he says, rising. "Then… take a look at this."

 With the cigarette back between his lips, Hiroki leaves the table for a moment and returns with a small wooden box. He sets it down in front of her and sits back down, exhaling a plume of smoke that shrouds the air with something unspoken, something long buried.

She remembers.

 He briefly mentions something about Hayame and her letters at the party before—but she doesn't expect him to bring them now.

 Yuna reaches out, but he gently moves her hand aside.

He opens the lid himself. Letters spill out—fluttering onto the table like fallen leaves.

 "They're from Hayame, right?" she asks quietly.

 He nods.

 "Who writes letters these days?" she mutters, half in disbelief. It feels almost childish to her.

 "She does. I blocked all her numbers long ago. After that… she started writing. Handwritten letters, mailed from a post office in Shibuya, Tokyo. That must be where she lives now. I pick them up from my mailbox every week… but I never open a single one."

 "Why?" she asks, eyes widening.

 "Because they're from her?"

 "Exactly."

 "Then… doesn't that mean Irumi still—" still has feelings for you, she wants to say.

 "Before she leaves the company, Hayame-san confesses to me. I turn her down. But later… she starts texting. Calling. At first, I reply politely, just to be decent. But her messages become… wrong. Way too much.

 She begs to see me.

 To be near me.

 To touch me.

 Eventually… I cut her off. Completely. Block everything."

 Hiroki fidgets, fingers twisting together, his gaze flicking away every so often.

 "But she keeps writing. When I don't respond, she sends a letter to Jun—tells her to make me read the final one."

 "Wait… Jun?"

 "Yeah."

 Jun.

 Her name drifts vaguely through Yuna's mind, like a face she can almost remember but can't quite hold onto.

 Hiroki gives her a quick rundown of HIMrs6's return to Osaka last week—including Jun's.

 Yuna remembers watching them perform once. Hiroki on electric guitar. Jun as the lead vocalist and leader. She used to enjoy watching them.

 Her heart flutters—just a little—at the memory.

 "Here," Hiroki says, bringing the conversation back, "You can read this one—or all of them, if you want."

 She picks up the envelope—dated just a month ago. The name on the front is written with deliberate care: Hayame Irumi.

 Her throat suddenly feels dry. A cough escapes her, then another. The tightness in her chest makes it worse, rougher. She rubs her sternum, trying to calm it down. Hiroki pushes a glass of water toward her. She drinks it in one go and sets it aside, turning her attention to the envelope. Slowly, she opens it, unfolding the paper within. Hiroki watches her, wordless but tense.

 The first few lines emerge. Yuna reads aloud:

  "Dear Hiroki,

 This is the twenty-seventh letter I've written to you... As always, I just want to ask—are you okay? How was your day? Were you too busy to write?

 Hiroki, whenever I think of you, my heart feels like it's about to explode—every beat bittersweet, maddening. You were the only light in my life, everything I needed to survive. But now that light is gone... These days are cold and dark.

 I watch you in my mind: you at work, laughing with someone else in the office—and if I'm not mistaken, it's her. Each fleeting moment cuts like a blade. I loved your dedication, your quiet composure, but I hated your distance—and I especially hated anyone else looking at you, especially her."

 Yuna pauses.

 The letter, so far, is a passionate outpouring of love—yet it sends a chill crawling up her spine.

So this is what Hiroki has been dealing with all along.

 A quiet remorse rises in her chest. She underestimates it—how intense it truly is.

 But then something else catches her attention.

 Her?

 Who exactly is "her"?

 As she continues reading, it feels like walking blind into a deep, twisted forest with no way out.

 The letter grows more obsessive—and beneath the romantic declarations, there are unmistakable threads of threat.

Yuna's instincts scream.

The person Hiroki talks to the most at work.

The one he spends the most time with.

The one he feels closest to...

Is Hayame referring to her?

 Yuna looks up to confirm.

 Hiroki says nothing. But he nods.

 She goes on reading:

  "...

 If only the two of us were all that mattered... why didn't you choose me?

 Her husband seems perfect: a good man, faithful, supportive, never tired...

 Do you know why I say that? Because I slept with him—just one night in Tokyo..."

Yuna freezes.

Her husband?

Ryusei?

No.

She can't believe it.

She refuses to believe it.

"He was desperate.

 We first met during a corporate meeting—his company, Shinsei Serv. I heard they were struggling, losing value fast, drowning in debt since someone new took over. That someone… was him.

 Because we were business partners, I asked my manager to invest a little, to help stabilize them.

 He invited me out for coffee. I declined at first.

 Back then, all I could think about was you. About our dates.

 Do you remember? I once told you how much I hated the taste of black coffee. But I drank it anyway. I wanted to learn how to make a cup, just for you.

 But little by little, I gave in.

 He looked so lost. So broken. I agreed to meet him. We talked for hours—about work, about life, about family. He was completely honest. And behind that honesty, I saw a man utterly powerless against the cruelty of life. But we shared something: Two broken hearts, quietly reaching for each other.

 And in that moment… I leaned on him.

 He awakened something deep inside me, something I thought I had lost. He was the first to make me forget those lonely nights—nights where my mind always drifted… back to you."

Yuna's fingers tremble as she clutches the letter.

Her heart feels like it has been torn apart.

  "Hiroki, I hope you regret it now.

 I once thought I could be the one to bring warmth to your barren soul—but you turned your back on me.

 Still, you haunt me. Whether I want it or not, every night… it's you I see. It's you I hold. It's your name I whisper.

 And it's you I love. The only one I've ever loved.

 Always,

Your one and only,

Hayame Irumi"

 Word by word, the letter falls from Yuna's lips like pieces of broken glass.

 Hayame Irumi.

Her stomach turns.

 She can't say anything—she can't even think.

 Why would Hayame send this to Hiroki? Does she think it is a trophy?

 Just the mention of that woman's name now makes her feel like she will bleed from the mouth.

 Tears well up, hot and cutting like shards of crystal—but she doesn't stop herself from crying. Instead, she stares at Hiroki, her eyes wide and hollow.

 "I don't believe this. Any of this. I… I can't…"

 Her voice cracks, her world is shattering. She whispers:

 "Please… leave."

 Then louder, but more broken:

 "Just go… Please…"

 Outside, the sky has turned pitch black.

 Hiroki reaches for his cigarettes—then stops.

 The small potted plant that always sits outside Takahashi's door is gone.

 So are his cigarettes.

 His lungs tighten, he pulls out a lighter from his pocket.

 Click. Flick. Click. Flick.

 The flame refuses to come.

 Dead.

 Just like that final flicker of hope inside him.