The cicadas were screaming again. They always did in August, but tonight their sound felt unbearable, like needles scratching the back of Daichi's neck. The open window in his room let in humid night air, sticky and thick, carrying the faint smell of asphalt still holding the day's heat. His small desk fan rattled as it turned left and right, too weak to make a difference.
Daichi lay sprawled across his futon, phone in hand, the glow painting his tired face. Emi's contact was still pinned at the top of his messages. He scrolled up and down, through weeks of conversations, laughter frozen in emojis, promises written in shorthand only they had understood. Then came the last message, short enough to fit on one line:
I think it's better if we stop. I'm sorry, Daichi. Please understand.
He didn't understand. He'd read the words so many times they had lost shape. He tapped the screen with his thumb, as if forcing more context to appear, as if somewhere between the letters there might be a clue, something she hadn't said out loud. But the screen remained blank. She had left him there, mid-sentence, with silence for an answer.
The walls of his room felt closer than usual. Posters of bands he used to like curled at the edges. A baseball cap hung from the corner of his shelf, never worn since the last summer game. On his desk, his unfinished math prep book was open, gathering dust. Everything looked like it belonged to someone else—a version of Daichi who had plans, who thought the future was a thing you could just reach for.
Now, at eighteen, he felt ancient. As if one girl had taken all the color with her when she walked away.
Outside, a group of kids ran past, laughing, their sandals slapping against the pavement. Daichi sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, listening to the sound fade into the distance. He remembered how Emi used to laugh like that—sharp, bright, a little too loud. It filled up every space they walked into. He used to love it. Now it made him sick, remembering.
He unlocked his phone again, thumb hovering over the "delete contact" button. His chest tightened. He couldn't. Not yet. To delete her would mean admitting she was gone for good, that the version of him who believed in her no longer existed. He wasn't ready to kill that boy.
Instead, he dropped the phone face-down onto the futon and covered his eyes with his hand.
"Why wasn't I enough?" he whispered to no one.
The fan kept rattling. The cicadas kept screaming. The world, cruelly, didn't stop for him.
A single tear slipped down the side of his face, into his ear, itchy and uncomfortable. He wiped it away too late. He hated crying. Emi had once said she liked how calm he always seemed, how nothing rattled him. Now he was rattled by everything—the silence, the heat, the shadows in the corner of his room.
He thought about messaging her. Just one line: Can we talk? But he knew what would happen. She wouldn't answer. Or worse, she would, but only with pity. And Daichi couldn't stand pity.
He rolled onto his side, staring at the crack in the ceiling where the plaster peeled faintly like a map. Somewhere, far away, trains hummed across the city, carrying people toward places they belonged. Toward futures they wanted. Daichi couldn't imagine his future anymore. Not without her.
And yet, buried under the ache, a tiny voice whispered: It doesn't end here.
But Daichi ignored it. He pulled the thin sheet over his head, curled into himself, and let the night press down like a weight.
Tomorrow would be another day of pretending. Pretending he was fine when his friends texted to hang out. Pretending he was focused when his parents asked about college prep. Pretending he was still Daichi, when in truth, the boy he used to be had walked away with Emi.
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