Three days.
Three long, seemingly endless days since the note was delivered to her doorstep.
Michiko hadn't told anyone, not even Fumi, who'd texted twice and gotten only half-hearted replies. She didn't have the language to explain what was happening. Every possible version made her sound unhinged. Or worse—like she'd lost.
She didn't want Fumi's voice in her head. Didn't want her knowing eyes or casual reassurances or the inevitable, "I told you so." Fumi would've seen straight through her, read between the clenched teeth and sleepless nights and asked, "Since when do you let someone get under your skin like this?"
Sleep came in broken pieces. Shallow and brief, no real rest. Her sheets were cold no matter how tightly she wrapped them around herself. She stopped putting effort into food—it all tasted like ash anyway. Even coffee, her last reliable vice, left a strange film on her tongue.
Her thoughts cycled, always finding their way back to Ji, like leaves caught in a whirlpool. Ji navigated the world as though they possessed time itself, each step imbued with a sense of unhurried purpose. It was as if nothing could hasten them, as if they held all the secrets of the universe but chose to guard them, leaving others to wonder. The memory of that note remained like a splinter beneath her skin, a persistent reminder that refused to be ignored.
Written in the same elegant handwriting, barely a sentence long:
You shouldn't disappear when things are getting good.
Michiko had read it countless times, torn between frustration and the way the words wormed their way into her mind, taking root with each reading. Yet, Ji remained silent. No texts, no calls, no hints—just an oppressive silence that felt both intentional and tormenting. That was the hardest part, as if Ji's silence was a strategy, leaving Michiko trapped in a vortex of waiting she never wanted to enter. By the third night, after hours spent pacing and overanalyzing, Michiko found herself teetering on the border of an internal battle, daring herself to act. Finally, she snapped, unable to reconcile her urge to reach out with the resentment of having to do so.
She stood in front of her mirror with meticulous movements. A tighter skirt, darker lipstick—each detail deliberately chosen. Earrings carefully selected. Her hair brushed to perfection, cascading over her shoulders. Perfume faint yet distinct. Every choice made to ensure she would be impossible to overlook.
If Ji wanted to play this game, she would show them she wasn't a pawn.
The journey to the bar unfolded in a whirlwind of motion and passing thoughts. Her feet carried her swiftly, almost as if they had a mind of their own, leaving her contemplations trailing far behind. She kept reminding herself that her purpose was closure, yet as she crossed the threshold, her determination faltered ever so slightly. The bar was a vibrant tapestry of sounds and sights, a symphony of voices weaving into conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the crystalline chime of clinking glassware. It was a setting ripe for impulsiveness, for regrets waiting to happen, and for inevitable encounters.
And there, at the heart of it all, stood Ji.
Ji was poised behind the bar, exuding a natural charisma with one arm casually draped along the countertop, while the other hand traced circles around the rim of a half-finished drink that was clearly not their own. Nearby, a girl with a short, sleek black bob and glossy red lips leaned in too close, her laughter spilling out at something that clearly wasn't all that amusing. Ji's presence was enthralling, their expression a perfect blend of beauty and confidence.
The sight of Ji, so disconcertingly distant, sparked a sharp pang in her chest, like a match striking against stone. Jealousy seared through her veins like a jolt of static. Icy at first, then rapidly transforming into molten heat.
She wasn't supposed to care. None of this was supposed to matter. Ji had been nothing more than a test, a casual wager, a one-night thrill that had lasted beyond its intended limits. So why did it feel as though her lungs were on fire?
Her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her purse, the leather biting into her skin as her body screamed for her to turn away, to flee, to erase every memory and feeling. Yet, her feet remained rooted to the spot, refusing to obey her desperate plea for escape.
Then Ji looked up, their eyes unerringly finding Michiko's in the throng, the easy smile on their lips dissolving in an instant. Without uttering a single word, without offering any excuse, Ji moved with purpose toward her, weaving through the crowded room, their sight firmly set on hers.
Michiko's pulse quickened, pounding in her ears, as Ji halted mere inches away. They stood in silence, measuring each other, the air between them crackling like an exposed wire, electric and hazardous. Ji's face remained inscrutable. Michiko despised how much space they commanded simply by standing there.
Her tongue felt as heavy as lead. "You left another note," Michiko finally managed, voice accusatory.
Ji's expression barely shifted. "You read it."
The simple acknowledgment hung between them, stretching the air like a pulled bowstring. Part of Michiko itched to slap them. Yet another part of her yearned to fall forward, to press her mouth against theirs until the dull ache within her subsided. Mostly, she wished she could rewind time, back to the night she had let them in, back to before she started feeling like she was losing her footing on shifting sands.
Michiko clenched, struggling to maintain her composure as her emotions churned tumultuously inside her. "This wasn't supposed to go past one night," she said, her voice irregular.
Ji's eyes flicked downward, stare dragging on her lips, then slowly rose back to meet her gaze. "Then you should've shut it down before it started," they replied, their tone a teasing challenge.
The tension snapped between them with a painful clarity, leaving Michiko breathless. Her anger flared, a hot, seething wave that mingled viciously with a desperate need she refused to acknowledge, a need that clawed at her insides.
She longed to unleash something cruel, a biting remark that would remind Ji who truly held the power. But the words eluded her, lost in the storm of emotion.
Ji leaned in closer, their voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that brushed against her senses. "We shouldn't have this conversation here."
Michiko's eyes shot up at the fine command in Ji's tone. Yet before she could voice either protest or agreement, Ji gestured discreetly toward the dimly lit back hallway, their stare firm.
After a moment, Michiko nodded stiffly, her movements mechanical. Without a word, Ji turned and began to walk, their steps purposeful, clearly expecting her to follow. Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat echoing loudly in her ears as she moved, each step feeling like a reluctant surrender of more ground than she had ever intended to yield.