Night had sunk its claws into the city, painting the sky in the deepest shade of blue-black, stars struggling to pierce through the layers of light pollution and late-night haze.
The apartment complex stood silent against the dark horizon, a quiet sentinel watching over Tokyo's restless heartbeat. From the rooftop, the lights below shimmered like scattered jewels—taunting, distant, and impossibly alive.
Shinichi stood just behind the heavy steel door that led to the rooftop. His hand rested on the rusted handle, unmoving, breath held somewhere between resolve and doubt.
He could hear the wind whispering past the concrete railings, the soft metal rattle of hanging wires, and the faint vibration of neon lights from a billboard across the street. But beyond that—he could hear her. Or rather, feel her.
Koizumi.
She was there, just like she always was on nights she didn't want to be seen. She had always sought the quietest spaces, the furthest points from noise and people. It wasn't avoidance, not really. It was self-preservation. A way to make peace with everything she couldn't say.
Shinichi pushed the door open.
The wind greeted him first, lifting the edge of his jacket like a warning. But his eyes found her almost instantly. Koizumi stood near the railing, her back to him, her silhouette partially illuminated by a tired rooftop bulb. Her long hair was unbound, dancing with the breeze, her frame still like an untouched sculpture of grief.
She didn't turn.
"I knew you'd come," she said, her voice barely louder than the hum of the city below.
Shinichi stepped forward slowly. "You were waiting for me?"
A quiet laugh, bitter and soft. "Maybe I was waiting for someone to tell me I didn't have to feel like this forever."
He came to a stop beside her, resting his hands on the edge of the railing. The cold metal stung his skin, but he didn't move.
"I wanted to talk to you after what happened with Hinoka earlier."
Koizumi flinched at the name. She closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath as if bracing for impact.
"She told me," Shinichi said. "Everything. The kiss behind the gym. What she saw. What it did to her."
Silence again, thick and stretching.
Koizumi whispered, "I didn't know she saw us."
"She did. And she's been hurting ever since."
Koizumi turned to face him, slowly, eyes glassy but defiant. "So you came here to tell me I'm a bad person?"
"No." Shinichi shook his head. "I came here to tell you that I'm sorry. For everything. For not noticing. For letting it fester. For pretending it didn't matter."
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
"I didn't come here to choose between you and her," Shinichi said. "I already made my choice. But this—what I'm saying now—it's not about picking someone. It's about telling the truth."
Koizumi swallowed hard. "You're choosing her."
He nodded. "I am. Because I owe her the honesty she never got. Because even after everything, she's never stopped trying to protect what we had—even when it was broken."
Koizumi looked away. "Then why are you here?"
"Because you deserve that honesty too."
She leaned into the railing, her arms wrapped around her body, as though she could physically contain the emotion threatening to spill.
"It wasn't supposed to be like that," she said.
"That kiss. I didn't plan it. I wasn't even sure you liked me. But in that moment, I felt like... if I didn't do something, I'd lose you forever."
Shinichi nodded. "I know."
"I didn't think Hinoka would find out. I thought—" her voice cracked, "—I thought I'd have time to explain. Time to fix it. But she never said anything. She just smiled. Like nothing happened."
"She was trying to protect us."
Koizumi covered her mouth with her hand. Her shoulders trembled.
"I ruined everything, didn't I?" she whispered.
"I thought I could keep it quiet. Keep pretending. But all I did was drive her further away. And I watched her suffer. Every day. And I said nothing."
"You were scared."
"I was selfish," Koizumi said sharply. "I didn't want to lose her. I didn't want to lose you. So I said nothing and hoped it would go away."
Shinichi stepped closer, his voice gentler now. "We were all selfish. That's what growing up does to people. It makes us terrified of what honesty will cost."
Tears slipped down Koizumi's cheeks. She didn't bother to wipe them away.
"I hate that I still love you," she said.
He said nothing.
"I hate that after everything, I still hoped you'd pick me."
"I know."
"I don't know how to stop."
"You don't have to," he said. "But maybe, now, you can let go of the guilt."
Koizumi finally turned to face him, and in the dim rooftop light, her face looked raw—flushed with emotion, soaked in regret, and stripped of all pretense.
"I never wanted to hurt her. I swear."
"I believe you."
They stood in silence, the city thrumming beneath them like a restless sea. Shinichi reached out and took her hand, holding it briefly.
"This isn't goodbye," he said. "But it's the beginning of something different. Something honest."
She nodded, unable to speak.
Then he turned and walked away, the rooftop door closing gently behind him.
Koizumi stood alone beneath the artificial glow, her knees giving slightly as she sank down against the railing.
The wind picked up, whispering past her ears as if echoing voices long silenced. Her hands covered her face, and her sobs came—deep, painful, soul-wracking sobs that tore through the stillness of the night.
She cried not because she had lost, but because she had broken something beautiful.
And now, finally, she could mourn it.
Her thoughts swirled—images of high school hallways, of laughter echoing down sunlit corridors, of Shinichi's smile as he handed her a forgotten notebook, of Hinoka tugging her hand and dragging her to the school gate, shouting something about taiyaki.
Those moments felt so far away now. They belonged to a different time, a different Koizumi. One who hadn't yet known how fragile love could be.
She remained on the rooftop for what felt like hours. Her tears dried eventually, leaving behind the residue of clarity. A cold wind brushed against her cheeks as if to say, You're still here. You can still change.
She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin atop them. In the distance, a train's horn pierced the night—a sound she'd always found oddly comforting. Maybe because it reminded her that everything, even heartache, moved forward.
For the first time in years, Koizumi didn't feel like pretending anymore.