It was spring when the walls turned yellow.
Not bright sunflower yellow. Not pastel. But a soft, lived-in shade—the kind that looked like it had stories to tell.
Kayo stood barefoot in the middle of the living room, brush in hand, paint smudged across his forearm. Takara sat cross-legged on the floor behind him, sipping iced tea and giving terrible color commentary.
"You missed a spot."
Kayo didn't look. "I'll get it."
"You said that two spots ago."
"This is why you were banned from the ladder."
"You fell off the ladder."
"Because you distracted me with that thing you call dancing."
Takara laughed and leaned back on his hands, watching Kayo stretch to reach the corner of the wall.
Everything felt right.
Not perfect.
But real.
They fought. They made up. They learned how to be quiet together without drifting apart. Takara learned to listen, really listen. Kayo learned that vulnerability wasn't weakness—and that sometimes love looked like buying your partner's favorite snacks without being asked.
In another life, this would have been the epilogue.
But real life wasn't a book.
And some chapters still had to turn.
The first shift came subtly.
Takara was working late on a project. He'd landed a spot in an internship program for student media, and his days had started stretching well past sunset. Kayo, meanwhile, was neck-deep in curatorial meetings and preparing for a dual exhibition in Tokyo.
They still ate dinner together. Still kissed goodnight. But something unspoken began to grow between them—a kind of quiet exhaustion they both tried to ignore.
Until the day Takara came home and found Kayo staring at the wall, unmoving.
"Kayo?"
Kayo blinked. "Oh. Hey."
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just… tired."
Takara walked over. "Did something happen?"
Kayo opened his mouth. Closed it. Then finally said, "My father called."
Takara tensed.
Kayo rarely talked about his family. He'd only ever mentioned them in fragments—cold holidays, empty birthdays, a silence deeper than absence.
"What did he want?" Takara asked carefully.
"He's sick."
Takara froze.
Kayo sat down on the edge of the couch, rubbing his hands together.
"They didn't tell me until now. Said he didn't want me 'burdened.' Like news is a weight to carry only when it's convenient."
Takara sat beside him. "Are you going to see him?"
"I don't know," Kayo whispered. "He's in Kyoto. It's been almost four years. I don't know who he is anymore. Or who I am around him."
Takara reached out and laced their fingers together.
"You don't have to decide tonight."
But Kayo's eyes were already far away.
The call came two weeks later.
Kayo had flown to Kyoto without much warning. He'd left a note—"I'll be back in three days. Don't wait up"—and Takara had pretended it didn't sting.
Now he stood in the apartment, phone pressed to his ear, listening to Kayo's soft, strained voice.
"He's worse than I thought," Kayo said. "Refuses treatment. Still as stubborn as ever."
Takara leaned against the kitchen counter. "And you?"
"I feel like a guest in my own name."
Takara closed his eyes. "Do you want me to come?"
There was a pause.
"I don't know."
"Do you want me not to come?"
Another pause. "I don't know that either."
Takara swallowed. "Okay."
When Kayo returned, something had changed.
He unpacked quietly.
Talked less.
Smiled only when Takara forced him to.
They still slept in the same bed, but the warmth between them felt thinner, like they were reaching through water to touch.
One night, Takara sat on the edge of the bed while Kayo showered.
He pulled open the drawer to grab a pen—and found the envelope.
Unmarked.
Inside: the letter Takara had written in Paris but never sent. The one he thought had been lost.
He unfolded it slowly.
Kayo,
If you're reading this, it means I didn't say what I needed to say in person.
I love you. That hasn't changed.
But I need to be loved back in ways that don't make me feel like I'm always waiting.
Waiting for you to text. To speak. To choose me without hesitation.
I want more for us.
But I can't want it alone.
If we lose this, please know I never stopped hoping we'd find it again.
Takara folded the letter and placed it back carefully.
When Kayo stepped out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, he found Takara already under the covers—eyes open, facing the wall.
Neither spoke.
And that silence, that night, felt heavier than ever before.
The next morning, Takara didn't bring it up.
Kayo made eggs. Takara made toast. They moved around each other like choreography practiced too long.
Then Kayo said, "I got an offer."
Takara didn't look up. "For what?"
"A permanent position. In Tokyo. Full curation lead."
Takara put his toast down.
"That's… amazing," he said, voice steady.
Kayo sat across from him. "They want an answer by the end of the month."
Takara nodded slowly.
"And what do you want?" he asked.
Kayo didn't answer.
Not at first.
"I want to say yes," he admitted. "But I want to say it with you."
Takara's breath caught.
"And you think I'll just move with you?"
"No. I think…" Kayo hesitated. "I hope you'd want to."
Takara stared at him.
And realized: he didn't know anymore.
Not because he didn't love Kayo. But because this love—their love—had started to feel like something constantly shifting. Always on the edge of change. Of goodbye.
That night, Takara sat alone on the balcony.
He watched the stars blur behind the city lights.
Kayo came out after a while, blanket draped over his shoulders.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No," Takara whispered. "But I'm getting there."
They sat in silence for a long time.
Then Takara said, "I love you."
Kayo turned to him. "I love you too."
"But maybe," Takara said softly, "love isn't always enough."
Kayo closed his eyes.