04-04-2025, 10:44 PM
Kiyohito did not move as she placed the book on the counter. The quiet gesture held more gravity than any confession, and for a moment, he found himself unable to speak. His gaze lowered to the faded cover of the novel—No Longer Human—as though it might yield some hidden meaning by being left behind in such a way. He knew the story, of course. Everyone did. But in this moment, it wasn't the contents that arrested him—it was what the book represented. A reason to see her again. An opening where all others had closed.
He should have thanked her. He should have bowed his head and let her go.
Instead, his fingers slowly reached toward the book but stopped short of touching it. His hand hovered above the counter before falling away, fingers curling in on themselves, as though even that small intimacy might be too forward.
Still, something in him needed to offer her something back, something real—not his silence, not his restraint.
“It’s not a gift poorly suited,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, colored by a note he did not intend to reveal. “A tragic story may be all the more fitting. Tragedy… has a way of telling the truth.”
There was a pause, drawn out like a held breath. He stood very still, but his eyes followed her—not to trap her, never to pressure—but as if memorizing her shape against the grayness of the apartment. His voice, when it came again, was softer.
“I will read it.”
He looked away then, embarrassed by the rawness of an admission he barely bit back. It felt like too much. Too bare. The overhead light flickered faintly in the silence, and he moved past it like it had not happened, as though the air itself might allow him to step around the moment.
When he spoke again, his tone had returned to something steadier, though not unfeeling. “You are welcome to return for it whenever you like. The book,” he added, after a beat. “Or the tea.”
He did not look at her when he said it—honor demanded he not—but the offer lingered nonetheless. There was no promise in his words, but there was something gentler still: the permission to come and go, unburdened by debt or expectation. The door was open. It would remain open.
Whether she stepped through again was not his to control.
He should have thanked her. He should have bowed his head and let her go.
Instead, his fingers slowly reached toward the book but stopped short of touching it. His hand hovered above the counter before falling away, fingers curling in on themselves, as though even that small intimacy might be too forward.
Still, something in him needed to offer her something back, something real—not his silence, not his restraint.
“It’s not a gift poorly suited,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, colored by a note he did not intend to reveal. “A tragic story may be all the more fitting. Tragedy… has a way of telling the truth.”
There was a pause, drawn out like a held breath. He stood very still, but his eyes followed her—not to trap her, never to pressure—but as if memorizing her shape against the grayness of the apartment. His voice, when it came again, was softer.
“I will read it.”
He looked away then, embarrassed by the rawness of an admission he barely bit back. It felt like too much. Too bare. The overhead light flickered faintly in the silence, and he moved past it like it had not happened, as though the air itself might allow him to step around the moment.
When he spoke again, his tone had returned to something steadier, though not unfeeling. “You are welcome to return for it whenever you like. The book,” he added, after a beat. “Or the tea.”
He did not look at her when he said it—honor demanded he not—but the offer lingered nonetheless. There was no promise in his words, but there was something gentler still: the permission to come and go, unburdened by debt or expectation. The door was open. It would remain open.
Whether she stepped through again was not his to control.