Kisarazu's cherry blossoms fell like feathers that morning—soft, silent, and strangely cruel. Beneath the fluttering canopy, Haruki stood alone on Minato Street, the tree-lined road that had once framed his happiest memories. Now, every drifting petal felt like a slow unraveling of the life he was leaving behind.
He waited.
It had been Emi's idea to meet here—"one last time," she said in her message, as though this were a mutual farewell and not her confession.
She arrived late, dressed in beige and uncertainty. Her hair was tied back the way Haruki always liked, and for a moment, the familiarity stung worse than distance.
They stood beneath the very tree where, two years ago, she'd pressed her lips to his and whispered promises of a Tokyo apartment, startup dreams, a future sewn with ambition. Haruki remembered how she'd laughed, teasing him for his awkwardness, calling him her "quiet genius."
Today, her smile was cautious. Polite. Measured.
"Thank you for coming," she said, adjusting the strap of her purse.
Haruki nodded but said nothing.
"I heard… everything. Your father. The inn. Your mother…"
Silence again.
Emi sighed. "I didn't plan to fall out of love with you. But I think… it happened when you started chasing things I couldn't see. You always talked about codes and venture capital like they were real people. I missed you, Haruki. The one who used to write haiku on the backs of my bus tickets."
He looked away, eyes tracing the cracks in the pavement. "And Daichi?"
"I didn't cheat," she said quickly. "Not technically. But yes. He was there. When you weren't."
Haruki inhaled slowly. The weight of betrayal didn't hit like thunder—it settled like dust, slow and suffocating.
"I see," he murmured.
"I just needed someone present," Emi continued, voice cracking. "Someone who wasn't always chasing ghosts on a keyboard."
He almost laughed. Ghosts. That's what she thought his dreams were.
"Daichi makes me feel stable," she added.
"And I made you feel... invisible?" he asked.
Emi hesitated. "No. Just... small."
For the first time, he looked her full in the eyes. "Then I hope he makes you feel big enough to carry that guilt."
She flinched, and the silence between them snapped like old wood.
Neither said goodbye. There was no hug. No final look.
She turned and left down the path lined with pink petals. And Haruki stood there beneath the tree, the initials they'd carved into its bark now faded and scabbed over.
He slid a hand into his jacket, pulled out a folded piece of paper: a one-way ticket to Tokyo Station. Evening train. No return.
As he tucked it back into his pocket, the wind picked up—lifting the blossoms into a brief storm of beauty.
By the time they settled, Haruki was already walking away.