It's been four years.
The city is louder now. Neon spills across cracked pavement. Trains run later. People rush faster. Yuu walks among them like smoke—here, but untouchable.
He doesn't check his phone hoping for her name anymore. Doesn't stare at crowds looking for blonde streaks and glittered nails. He knows better now.
Some people are storms.
You survive them.
You don't chase them.
There's a drawer in his apartment he never opens.
Inside: one pink hair clip. A Polaroid turned pale. A concert ticket she made him keep. The last photo she ever sent—her grinning, backlit by sunlight, captioned: "I'm not good at staying, but you were easy to love."
He never replied. Never got the chance.
But he lives. Somehow.
He laughs with coworkers. Forgets appointments. Overcooks his rice. Watches the moon from his balcony sometimes and wonders where she went—if she ever thinks of him, if she stayed wild or if the world broke her.
But mostly, he let her go.
Not all the way.
Just enough to keep walking.
He still takes photos. Not for anyone else. Just for himself. Sometimes they're of empty swings or puddles in the street. A cracked phone booth. A streetlight at dusk. Little things that feel like her, even now.
Maybe that's all love is, in the end.
Not holding on.
Just remembering right.
The End.
By
VALENTINE MULENGA