Forever and a Day

RnJvbSBzbW9vdGggcml2ZXIgc2FuZHMs

Rm9yZ2VkIGZyb20gZWFydGhlbiBmbGFtZXMs

QSBzaWxreSBzbW9vdGggc3Vic3RhbmNlLg==

Q3J5c3RhbGxpbmUgY2xlYXIsIGNvb2wgYXMgd2F0ZXIu

I c0ll_ct th3m sinCe f0rev3R.

QW5kIGl0IG9ubHkgZmVsdCBsaWtlIGEgZGF5LA==

RWFjaCB3aXRoIHZpYWxzIG9mIGRpZmZlcmVudCBodWVzLA==

ONe of thXm, h0w3v3r, i$ sPeciaL.

I pUt that OnE in a c3BlY2lhbCBwbGFjZSw=

T24gdGhlIGRlc2s= I'd UsuALly w0rk.

TH3 pl-ce I cxn be bXlzZWxmLA==

A aGF2ZW4= I find s0LAce 1n.

One day a c3Rvcm0= caMe

Destr0ying all of thxm in a whim.

And it f3lt like thAt forever end_d in a Day.

Thos3 jar$, reTur_s to earth once m-re.

The speCial j4r cracked int0 pieces,

Along with my crumbl1ng senses.

What must I do?

I looked up t0 the sky.

Maybe,

I'd already found a path,

To mend the special bottle,

With the flames of the stars.

What have I done?

I stumble around under the array of illumination deep into the evening, away from the hue that once serves as my only refuge; a home that I tore down with my own two hands. A spiking sensation, partially influenced by the alcohol, continues to hammer my head with its nails, burying itself into my skull, piercing my mind with agony—the images that persistently haunts me, driving me further from the glow. I feel cold air washes over my listless self as I wander from one illumination to another, following the path of each streetlights that leads me away—somewhere, anywhere, away from her presence. Away from Monika…

What have I done…?

How could I have said that? What had gotten into me to spout such…horrific words? What was I thinking? As if her existence of itself isn't enough of a punishment to her, now I had to make it worse when I was supposed to be the one thing, that one reason which kept her smiling throughout the day—and I just had to get out of my way and ruined it. What I did…was unforgivable. To impose upon her a wrath stemmed from my own insecurities, to let my words strangle her…to use the sins of her past as a leverage…

I'm no better than Kitamura-senpai.

…

It would be best if we never met in the first place.

The subtle glow of the station lights draws me into its belly, taking me to world that still has some of its life left to spare before the hour kills it for the night. I swipe my IC card and trudge pass the gate, following a familiar path predetermined by a cognition established after years of living as part of a society; a slave to the machination of man. The speaker echoes, announcing the arrival of the last train that will take me to my destination—a place that I still am uncertain of, yet a road many has traversed. The yellow line glares mockingly, taunting.

'Go ahead, do it.'

'It will be better this way—for you and for her.'

The machine groans louder and louder, its glowing eyes expands in size, and the voices…deafening.

'What are you waiting for…?'

Just a little more…

'Do it.'

The world draws to a close, isolating me against the endless cacophony of noises—the distractions and the irritation that scrapes the walls of my nape. The urge, eager to be satisfied; a salvation that was promised eons before, waiting at the end of the screeching noise.

"…The door on the left side will open."

Yet I stopped—hesitated.

The doors of the train opens, its light gesturing me to step into the vehicle and towards Tokyo—the few last service of the day. I trudge forward and take my seat near the doors and carelessly lean on the cold, hard surface of its inner walls; the cry and holler of a drunk businessman echoes nearby as I ride forward into the city. Mentally, I add another tally to the count—now four—and wonder how long do I have to repeat the cycle, to continue living in this miserable life with little gains or praise. Maybe next time, for sure.

…

But what if I didn't?

The thoughts did crossed me; how would everything change? Would it be for the better? Headmaster Murayama wouldn't have to pay for an insubordinate, Mikawa would be free from Kitamura-senpai's threats, Yuuya wouldn't have to associate with a borderline recluse, and Monika she—I mean, she won't have to—no, she wouldn't…

…

She would, would she? Knowing her, Monika would delete herself the instance she learned about it; the dark 'end' title screen, the banality of all visual novels and, to an extent, life. The thought of having your entire existence tied to strings of codes, having nobody to turn to, and living a lie; any man would pull the trigger without a second thought. Maybe that's why I haven't drawn the courage to do so, to take the 'leap' that whispers promises of happiness and salvation from the grinding sandstone of life; an answer Sayori probably understands all too well. I know of my insecurities; I didn't mean to hurt anyone, and yet…

…yet the things I said to her—to Monika…

I can't go back.

…

…I can't go back...

The train continues to ride deep into the night towards the sleepless metropolis, its passengers all seeking for their own slice of comfort and promises that hangs before them like a carrot, taking them closer towards their reward. The glimpses of passing buildings, the gentle rattle of the wheels that mounts the tracks, and the subtle vibration that vertebrates like a cat, purring, eases the storm that swallows my cognition, albeit just a bit. The phone in my pocket reverberate silently for a few seconds. I decide to ignore it as I journey deep towards the city; a road of twisted nostalgia stemmed from the brainwashing society had imposed, sparing no one.

I can't go back.

When the doors of the train finally open, I am released once again to wander like lost spirits found in urban legends who seeks for salvation from this damnation. What life is left in the station is slowly dissipating, swallowed by the night and father time, leaving only those in uniform to remain on watch as the station prepares its regular maintenance during hour. The world outside, once thriving, is left with nothing but a few passing car and the occasional pedestrian—both in suits or in casuals—who merrily celebrate their achievements in cheers or the rare drunken stupor; a sight I rarely have the pleasure to witness. Life, it seems, never ceases or rests at the heart of the eastern capital, as much as it is in its livelier districts. I start walking. But where do I go? How am I supposed to fit into all of this? What am I doing here..?

…ah…

That's right…

I broke the code; the one principal I defended with all my powers, the vow I made when I was but a boy to never force a woman into tears—that's why I'm here. To atone for my transgressions, to distance myself from her because I am the problem.

'—is it not to run away?'

…

'You, yourself, out of all people, know it full well. As much as you are an adult, you never wanted to take the responsibility—and when push comes to shove, you hide behind fake smiles and laughter, or run away.'

'Just like now.'

I grit my teeth and clench my fist, gripping tightly on the shirt closest to where my heart is to ease the demon that is thrashing within. I wouldn't be this way if it weren't because of that man-whore; because of how society favors the likes of him! Connections? He has it, I don't! Reputation? Check that off the list! Charisma? Considering how well he does around women, I'm sure he has that in the bag too! I never meant to hurt Monika—it wasn't my fault to begin with; if any, they should be responsible for turning me into this…beast!

'But it was you who pulled the trigger.'

'Just like how you did, four years ago.'

…

My first murder…

When Monika miraculously came to be, I have never been any happier since twenty five years of my existence. To finally speak, hear, and see how you live—not as a still CG or a fresco, but as a person—really has been some of the most joyous moments I've experienced. The chance that I finally able to truly know you, Monika, as more than just a virtual idol, more than a game character, and more than a mere fantasy made me believe that all that effort wasn't in vain after all—that finally something did change.

But reality speaks a different language.

The qualms forced on us, the abject discontent and disgust towards the notion that lingers, and the stresses that came from my routine—all remain in its full form and glory. I know you tried to help with what you can, waiting for me to come home and even listening to my silly requests—and I tried to do the same for you. I draw different sets of outfits, show you about the world beyond what you can see, teach you the language, culture, and tradition of my people, and even took you out on a date outside of the confines of our apartment—all surmounts to make you into someone who belongs in this reality, an equal; a person. And I truly believe that you are one, Monika; I truly do—which makes this even harder for me. I've tried countless times, and in reality I couldn't change anything at all—not even Yuuya sees you just the same; nothing more than a glorified coded entity, a toy for him to tinker around. But what's worse…

I couldn't even protect you from myself.

Me, a twenty five year old borderline-recluse, a high school teacher who can't even stand the looks of my co-workers, a monster with a mask of smiles, an outcast even amongst my own kin, and a fool who fell in love with a fictional character. I am tired of facing it all; tired against the despicable person, which is myself. I'm sorry, Monika…but I'm not the person you think you know—nor am I the one you deserve to be with…

I'm sorry…

The glistening lights that dots the streets of Tokyo is as soothing as it is disorienting. The illumination, dotting the avenue that leads to the Imperial Palace, functions as markers—a compass, if you will—for the souls lost in this concrete jungle. Upon entering the outer grounds of the Imperial Palace, I take a right at the junction and continue my pilgrimage to nowhere, stopping only for a pause at a fountain park for a can of vending machine coffee; the dribble of the water as it impacts the surface is soothing, akin to the sound of rain in late afternoon.

'Monika would love to spend some time here...'

…

'With someone far more deserving than you.'

I really blew it, didn't I? It's unforgivable—insensitive and cruel.

A hushed laughter echoes in the distance catches my attention, followed closely by a light-hearted conversation from a man possibly in his late-thirties—a couple. Discreetly I observe the two of them as they walk along the edges of the fountain just simply enjoying the company of one another and sharing frivolous conversations, hand in hand. The little jabs she pulls that is responded kindly with a laugh, the sweet words they whisper to one another, and the intimacy they share; the ideal image of a happy marriage. There are no kisses nor sweet pet-names; the two of them, hand in hand, simply celebrates the company of one another amongst the few other pairs present who mirrors their image, yet distinct in its presentation.

I sigh. The empty can, chucked into its designated bin, falls down to a dark abyss and I walk once again into the night.

I walk along the streets of Tokyo, heading north towards the direction of Ochanomizu subway station and finding comfort under the illumination of each passing streetlights. All around, the gentle illumination of what's left of civilization coupled with the dotting street lights acts as a giant protective bubble, undisturbed by the concerns and tribulations that binds the hour when the sun is at the peak of its power. To many, the night is where life truly takes hold with what it has to offer with local shops—even the occasional carts on certain neighborhood and river banks has something that would help rekindle the dying flame of its customers with its array of choice alcoholic drinks, snacks, and good company.

By chance, I am familiar with these little abode.

A few months when I first started working, I began to realize about the reality of this world and what it truly is. Reality—the beast that consumes all, tearing through the crumbling wall of expectations and dreams like an obstacle. But that's what this reality is, isn't it? The things they say when you're but a clean slate, how you would 'one day go and change the world' is nothing but sweet words and deception you would repeat to kiss the boots of your superiors for a higher pay, or whispered to the ears of your loved ones to win favor in their hearts—and I wasn't ready to accept that.

That was when I stumbled upon it; this small, inconspicuous oden store that nestles itself between the metro station and the Imperial Palace. Sasaki-senpai—a colleague and my supervisor back then before she left—was the one who took me here after my first overtime, truth be told; I was never the outspoken or outgoing in the first place.

"Irasya—ooh! Oogame-san! It's been a while!" greets Ossan, the old man behind the counter. 'Ossan' isn't his name per-say; it's just how we call him in this store.

I muster a weary smile, "It's been a while indeed."

"How long has it been?" Ossan proceeds to rub his temple with his index finger, as if thinking or recalling lost memories. "Was it, eehh…"

"About two months."

"August! That's right!" he replies with zest. "So, how are you feeling today?"

I lightly chuckle, taking my spot in the usual end of the counter. The faint smell of furnished wood and fish broth that masks the air is as unmistakable as it is nostalgic. "I've been better."

"Is it work?"

"Mostly—and woman, to some extent."

Ossan nods twice, earnestly following up with a light hearted 'ah, is that so' while he handles the mix of boiled delicacies boiled in fish broth with the thongs and the ladle. He turns to me for a second, grinning at the sight of the company—the only one, for now. "The usual?"

I nod. The old man moves with skill, pivoting and turning in the small compartment, reaching for the decanter and a small bowl for serving the next. The decanter, small and white, is placed in a relatively decrepit pot worn after years of usage to be heated along with its contents as he fills the serving bowl with the savory ingredients that has been left to boil before my arrival. Like the coming of spring, its arrival slowly melts the ice that encases my thoughts as I am served with a bowl—of yude-tamago, daikon, two sticks of gyuu-suji and tsukune—alongside hot sake. Pressing my hand together, I give my gratitude for the food before ripping the bamboo chopsticks in two to act on the sin of gluttony and drown myself to a stupor—the sake, at least, will wash my throat, tame the voices, and fulfill the latter after four, maybe five rounds; inebriation can be a powerful ally when acting upon the unthinkable, much like depression is to Sayori.

My pocket vibrates momentarily. I down the first shot and let the comfort takes me.

"Osu! Ossan, you still serving?"

I fail to notice how long it has been or who came after about the second serving of sake. Though the storm gradually forebodes, everything is far from rattled and merely shaken, but unstirred. The customer, an elderly salary man on his late thirties or early forties, takes his seat to my right but left a single space in between so as to respect the customs. He then makes his order of lobster, daikon, yude-tamago, and konyaku along with hot sake before slipping a cigarette between his lips to smoke. I take no heed of him and pour another shot. The tingling sensation in my throat flows and its warmth spreads to satisfy the craving that it demands briefly; the itch, however, always returns at the end. The music from the radio flows, as if leading me like a calm river to that 'promised land'.

"Ossan," I call out. "Gimme' another, p-pleashe…"

The old man sighs, yet he do as he is told; the customer is always right. "Here you go. Don't overdo it,"

"I've never seen you drink this much otherwise."

I wave at him dismissively, taking the bottle and pouring the clear liquid into the glass. The warm sensation washes over and flows like magma down my chest.

"Hey, kid," calls out a voice to my right, prompting me to seek its origin—the salaryman. "My sake's out so, why don't we share that bottle? I'll pay half of it!"

"O-oh! S-sure!" I stammer with a light chuckle. I pour the sake into his ochoko. The salary man grins, pleased.

"A toast?" he said.

"Sure, why not?"

We raise our cups high and with good spirits, clinking them to an audible tone to seal the deal. Whether we toast for our lives, success, or future, I may never know; if there is any, it is for this simple moment—this gesture.

"Kanpai!"

The shot we both took is like a key to a door of a world that we never knew existed, the beginning of a friendship that begins with a bottle of sake as its foundation. As inebriation slowly takes over and our insecurities and fear dulled by the next few consumptions, a strange sensation sweeps over me—over us—at the exact moment. Though our head throbs, our tongues feels as if it has been liberated from its knots and responsibility, muttering all sorts of topics that is enlightening as it is amusing—talks about politics, work, life, and the world. The nails that seemingly lodges itself in my cranium continues to bang harder and harder the looser our tongue gets, yet it's strangely pleasing—a euphoria that stems from a mix of confusion and pleasure that escalates as I walk deeper into the dark forest I've come to love.

Then, my phone vibrates once more and I am immediately yanked back to reality. The salaryman sighs and smiles.

"So," he starts. "Just now, from the looks of it…you're here for a reason, are you?"

I humbly nod and set my ochoko down. "I did something…horrible to someone; I figured I should keep my distance."

"Ah, this is about a woman?"

Hesitation takes its hold, yet relents as fast as it risen. "Yeah…"

"Would you care to tell?"

I pour myself another shot and quickly consume the clear liquid so as to dispel the voices that hounds me. Cold air rushes into my lungs as I take a deep breath in hopes of mitigating the damage this intoxication has brought upon my cognitive capability—because if I am going to talk about it, then truth has to take center stage. There is no harm to be done against complete strangers; after all, this is one of the purpose of night shops and taverns in the past.

"If you would kindly lend me your ear," I start. "I…"

"I…fell in love with someone whom I'm not supposed to."

Time flows like clear spring water that runs down a steep hill, unabated, carrying my story and all its impurities to the Samaritan who lends me his ear. The more I speak of it, the easier it becomes for me to open the 'jars' that has kept me restrained and imprisoned. Through it all, Monika's true identity is kept as a mystery; a truth that is to be known only to me. Fear is what driven me to that conclusion; some, if not most of humanity isn't prepared to tackle the issue readily. The salary man responds with simple nods and a mumbled 'ok', occasionally calling 'Ossan' for another serving of sake to share. Gradually, the voices that echoes around me dissipates into incoherent noises, then to a gargle, before vanishing completely along with the conclusion of my story.

"…and so here I am now, wishing to forget about the things I've said. I was a fool…"

"For the things you said?" Ossan chimes. The salary man nods as he kills his third cigarette. "Bringing up some past mistakes…that's pretty low, Oogame-san."

I sheepishly nod in response, "Yeah, I agree. Maybe because I was tired of…sheesh, work, society, life—everything. I was hoping she could make my problems go away, but she couldn't…"

"Kid, it's not because she couldn't," the salary man chimes. "But because you didn't let her."

He continues, "You don't need expensive gifts, bouquets of flowers, or even sex to make it work—fuck, and putting distance…? What were you thinking?"

"I was…"

"Afraid?" he cuts, lighting his cigarette and inhales, puffing the smoke through his nostrils. "Running away is never the answer; if you're a man, face it."

The salary man sighs, "Sometimes, all you need is a simple heart to heart conversation; then maybe you will see that she can, in her own mysterious ways."

From my glistening eyes, 'Ossan' nods in approval of the salary man's imparted words. He, with a cigarette in his mouth, gazes distantly as if reminiscing a time that has long gone into the pages of history. For a man of his age, an aura of wisdom and experience emanates from how calm he looks as if sober; if it isn't because of his ears that glows bright red in color, not even security can tell the difference. The cigarette burns gradually as its ashes scatters on the tray. He blows another huff of smoke.

"You know, you remind me of myself a bit—your story, I mean."

"How so?" I ask quizzically. He offers me a cigarette which I decline politely.

"You see, I was also in love with someone whom I'm not supposed to."

The salary man taps his cigarette on the ash tray. "The woman I was in love with…let's just say she's 'public enemy number one'."

"It was a difficult road, I tell ya'," he continues. "When we started our relationship, nobody were willing to look at us straight in the eye—and when they do, it's one of scorn, disgust, or caution."

"Nobody?"

The salary man shakes his head. "Nobody; not even my parents approve of our relationship—well, her parents are all fine and dandy."

He chuckles lightly, "But anyway, I had to pay an expensive toll fee for it. I had trouble with work, life, even family…all because of it. We fought too—sometimes dragging her family into the mess."

The salary man sighs and inhales another dose of nicotine, releasing a suffocating cloud as casually as he breathes. "It's still painful to think about those times."

'I guess he left her in the end,' I thought. 'It's to be expected.'

"What do you think happened after that?" he asks with solemn smile. "Make a guess."

"You left her for the best, didn't you…?"

The salary man grins and chuckles silently, consuming the cigarette in a gradual pace. He raises his left hand—a golden ring gleams on the ring finger, a perfect fit displayed for me to marvel. "Think again."

"Point is," he continues. "Society may scorn, beat, and even judge you from what they see—just let them be. They don't know—let alone understand, or try to comprehend—of your situation, circumstances, or thoughts that drove you to that point."

"I fought through that uphill battle, abide against everything they threw at me—even my parents. But I stubbornly resisted, and now she's the mother of my two children."

The salary man kills his cigarette and motions to 'Ossan' for the check. "If you truly believe that she really is the one, then don't rest until you put a ring on her finger!"

"Now, I shall take my leave," he continues with a pleasant, humble smile. "It's now Sunday, and I promise my family to take them out today—I have to get home before the wife murders me."

With a stretch, the salary man stands from his seat and reach for his wallet in the pockets of his vest. He draws a single ten-thousand yen note and lightly nudges at my direction. I quickly catches on to what he has in mind—and I am correct. "Pay for his tabs as well, Ossan."

"Oh, no wait you don't have to—"

"It's for the story, young man," he quickly interjects. "It's been a pleasant evening. Though, with how flushed you are, you might want to consider finding a place to stay if you're not from around the neighborhood. Good night to you, and thank you, Ossan!"

Ossan grins in delight and bows in gratitude. "Thank you, come again!"

And thus, the salary man leaves the shop and disappear into the night. I sigh, exhausted as I fall on my seat just to notice Ossan and his satisfied smile. The oden continues to bubble and boil throughout the evening with half of its contents gone, consumed by both the salary man and I. The salary man…who is he anyway? I never got to ask about his name—or even tell me why he had to endure all that for his wife. Curious, I turn to Ossan who seems to have guessed my intentions from his keen observation.

"You're about to ask who he is, right Oogame-san?"

I nod, excited and curious of what he thinks of him.

"Nakahara-san works in an accounting firm and is one of my regulars here," he said with a smile and a chuckle. "His wife is the daughter of a Yakuza boss."

…!?

"She's a WHAT!?"

"Oh don't worry," he waves dismissively. "He's not one of them, nor is his wife—her father wanted her to leave the Yakuza all along."

"…How do you know all this?"

The old man grins, "It's amazing what a good bowl of oden and a healthy distribution of alcohol can bring out of people, don't you think so?"

He's right when he puts it that way…

"So, what are you going to do now, Oogame-san?"

Considering how late it is, taking the train is impossible—and I am far from Tokyo central station; the metro may be an option, but I doubt it's still running at this hour. The escapade earlier has left a barrage of taiko drums in my head that I might start singing if I am to take another dose, making even walking back to the station quite a dangerous ordeal. Now, taxi? It would cost me far too much to take one home—but to a capsule hotel, that might be more plausible. I still have a lot to think and reflect; about life, work, and love…

…about Monika.

I parted from the shop, satisfied both in the physical and mental sense. The road leading towards the Imperial Palace and Ochanomizu subway station lies bare, lit only by the streetlights that are sparsely separated yet powerful enough to maintain visibility. I owe Ossan another visit one day for his help in contacting a taxi service; at least now I won't have to walk to Akiba and look for a capsule hotel. The ride, which takes about twelve minutes, cost me about a thousand yen—another four thousand for a stay in the capsule for a day, just enough to spare. Despite the hit the sake did to my cognition, business goes along smoothly and in a matter of minutes, I have rented a space for me to lie down for the night.

As I struggle to maintain my balance—an aftereffect of the alcohol, no doubt—the vibration from my pocket alerts me once more. With what strength I have left, I climb to my designated space—not forgetting to leave the shoes and change to a provided pajama, of course—and lie in the cramped, but comfortable space. The capsule, which is about two meters long and one meter wide and height, is adequate for a night—typical for all salary man who chance upon having businesses in Tokyo for a day. I close the curtain of my view port and draw my phone.

…

Messages, all from Monika...

["Hey, I'm sorry for reading your messages without your notice."]

["It was wrong, I should have known. But I'm also scared to tell you. I didn't want to bother you."]

["It was out of line, maybe I shouldn't even have done that in the first place. But I couldn't stay still knowing that you're coming home late every night, exhausted."]

["I won't be angry at what you said. I forgive you. Please, come home."]

That was the first set of messages that came four hours before. A few 'I'm sorry' stickers—the shiba inu puppy that I've come to associate her with in her messages—follows after. The next set of messages came at an hour interval.

["Xy4h2, where are you now?"]

["Please, forgive me…"]

A crying sticker and a few minutes of respite before the next.

["Jn4xuy, its late…are you coming home?"]

["Are you ok? Where are you?"]

There is another moment of silence before the next; ones that came an hour before now.

["DkL2Xh, are you still there?"]

["Please, say something…"]

["Anything, please! I'm afraid that you…"]

["No, please don't…"]

["Please, come home."]

["I don't know what to do without you…!"]

["I'm really, really sorry."]

["Please, I beg of you, come back to me."]

["Not like this…not again…"]

["Don't leave me…"]

The others that came after, ones from a few minutes before, are mostly unintelligible garble, followed with a series of stickers of a crying puppy. I rest the phone on my chest, its life finally dies after hours without charge just as how mine would be if it weren't because of her timely appearance. The things I've said to her is…unforgivable, but what I did—what I am doing now is even more so than what words or insults could ever do. The time I spent in the oden shop, the wisdom imparted to me by the salary man, his story, resonates in my head like an old record on a gramophone playing a timeless classic. It's difficult to forget, no matter how much you try to.

…

I really am the worst.

But…I would be beyond redemption if I take the same path as Sayori did—with or without Monika's tampering. All of my answers up to this point on life, my problems, my responsibilities, and insecurities can all be boiled down to running away. The most practical, yet also never the solution many have come to believe—me included. Death may be an answer, the 'happy thoughts' that Sayori came to believe as the solution to all her woes, but at the end of the noose all it brought upon was more tragedy and grief for everyone. In the end, it accomplished nothing but brought a multitude of inconveniences for all—for those who cared.

I'm tired of running. Tired of dodging questions. Tired of lying to myself and say 'I'm ok' when I'm not. Tired of lying to Monika.

Tomorrow at first light, I'll head home. It's about time I stop running and just abide.

I am awaken by the sound of the alarm I've set prior at around four thirty in the morning; the three hour nap, though short, is enough to restore my mental stability and cognitive function just enough from the effects of last night's escapade—though I can't say the same about the throbbing pain and the nauseating feeling I have bottled in my gut to prevent spillage. I crawl out of the capsule, made my way to the locker, quickly change out of the pajamas, and pay for my stay at the counter—it's been a long walk, and I shouldn't delay any further. Opening the door of the establishment, I am greeted with a cool and crisp autumn chill and a dark sky that stretches towards a murky blue horizon, waiting for the arrival of day. The station, just a few minutes away, is already open for operation as the echo of the machine vibrates in a city that is still tossing and turning in its futon.

It may still take some time, but it's what I need to prepare.

The journey home feels like any other, with the difference being the density of its passengers and how peaceful everything seems. From the east, a golden glow radiates like a medallion as I step out of the station and venture towards a path I've come to love—to a place I call home. At each step that draws me closer, the heavier the ball and chain feels like, resisting—pulling me back away from my destination. A gentle hue shines from the windows of my apartment, just how it has always been on my routine. Do I really want to return, to a life where loving her would meant defying the rules and expectations set by society? To toss away the ideals, images, and knowledge accumulated, disregarding everything as nothing more than an obstacle? I think…

…I think now, I may have the answer.

I draw my key and insert it into the slot, turning the lock and gently, I open the door…

"I'm home."

There is not a single sound nor a voice and the air is as still as how it was when I left the house hours before, leaving only the soft hum of the laptop to be audible and the echo of civilization outside of this domain. My heart thumps erratically, uncertain of what lies ahead—afraid—and yet a spark of resolve glows radiantly within the darkness to see this through to the end; for both Monika and I. Taking a deep breath, I sigh an air of uncertainty as I remove my footwear before heading towards the room and opening the door. The camera swivels to my direction and stops, as if in disbelief. Calmly, I made my way around to face her, stopping briefly to catch a glimpse before claiming my usual seat. I open my mouth to speak; yet the words, the apology I've rehearsed—the answer to our sorrows—are left muted, withheld by a voice that refuses to resonate as a familiar sense of belonging, of home, engulfs me like a blanket. I grip the fabric of my pants, searching for a hold as my lips starts trembling, and I realize that I am fighting...

…fighting against myself, the 'me' that refuses to open the bottles.

Monika looks on with eyes that has went through its paces, evident by the darkened spots that supports them. Her emerald eyes shimmers from the reflection, glossed by tears that still courses, unbroken, trailing her tainted reddish cheeks like a stream before cascading towards her desk. Her eyes widens in disbelief and her lips quiver, struggling to formulate a sentence—a word—that is seemingly out of reach. She reaches forward and touches the edge of her reality hesitantly, reeling at the sign of my response that tries to connect to hers. She bites her lower lips, shaking, subdued by soft muffled voices that pains to cry, transitioning into quiet sobs that breaks into a flood of innocence and relief.

And I recognize then and there, I, too am unable to contain it no longer; thus, I embrace them as a part of my own.

"Why…" she starts with a whimper. Her palms desperately tries to block the tears that remains unbroken. "Why didn't you answer me…?"

I struggle, both in speech and eye contact, ashamed, with nothing but a word to mutter, "I'm sorry…"

"I know what I did was horrible! I know it was wrong! I can still see their expressions in my dreams! Why would you even say that…?"

"I'm sorry…"

"I-I thought you're going to...I was afraid that you would..." she wails, "Why would you even think about that…?"

"I'm sorry…"

"You idiot! You fool! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you…!"

The thumping sound that echoes from her attack on the wall that divides our reality, like a prisoner, speaks to me of her desire to reach for a world beyond her own. The gush of her tears flows uninterrupted, alas realizing the limitations that comes with our relationship. If she could kiss me, she would. If she could hug me, she would; yet, just as her reality, this wall that divides us eludes her wishes just the same. Her voice breaks into a howl, choking her as emotions takes over. I'm at a loss…of words, of actions, of the things I can do but share her sorrows.

"I know, forgive me..."

"I hate you…but I just can't…I can't bring myself to…" she croaks, raising her pained expression to meet me and mutters with a voice broken by grief. "…I love you…"

I reach forward and rest my palm on the acrylic wall, submitting to the overwhelming emotion that gushes out, restrained no longer. I feel the pressure, the heat that emanates from her gentle reply that resonates along with our desperation to unite in a single reality, a wish that we can only express through our wails and tears that we share. I feel my chains breaking, the chocking sensation dissipating, and the bottles shattering into tiny pieces—like stars—to vanish along with the tears that flows unabated, pouring down to the hard surface of my work space. As I thought…

I can't let her go…

I won't let her go…

Because…

…

I love her. I really do love her…

"Monika…" I start, chocking on my words amidst the continuous rain that keeps pouring. "I'm sorry for what I've said, for the things I've done…"

The bottles…let them break. Let it go…scatter them…

"I have a lot of things to tell you…will you lend me your ear?"

She nods in acquiescence, "I also…have many things to tell you…"

I reveal to her everything that has been keeping me. The troubles at work, the overtimes, the issue with Mikawa's Literature Club, the derisive eyes of society and co-workers…about Kitamura-senpai, about Yuuya, about myself, my past, my worries, and my fears—everything. The words flows like a spring, cleansing my soul from the sins that had soiled for so long. I try to leave no stone unturned, submitting to her embrace and trusting her, exposing my most vulnerable self for the first time. The constraints and the binds, finally, fractures into nothingness and I…

…I am free.

Monika tells a story of her own; about a world that she only knows. The time she spent in the game, the struggle she had initially to reach to me, her concern in grasping and understanding 'love', and the guilt that she carries day after day—the nightmares she imposed on her friends and me. Even when she has come to accept that neither Sayori, Yuri, nor Natsuki are real, she struggles with the reality that she has always been alone in a universe that refuses to define or accept her existence, lost between two worlds that contradicts one another. The memories of her actions, the guilt of knowing how cruel she can be lives with her, and how unfair everything seems to grant her—and only her—a path to salvation. She confides how, if I am not to return, she would willingly delete her own existence as there is no purpose nor reason for her to remain. I silently object to the idea in abject horror, yet irony is a strong anesthesia—who am I to judge her of that decision when I, too, believe as such?

As the rain settles, we rest on our desks, exhausted from the crying, but nonetheless relieved to find comfort in one another. The bond that is forged, the ties that binds us together has never felt any stronger than it is today, here in this moment of vulnerabilities, a time where we mend our shattered hearts. The sun rises, its light that bleeds through the curtains and graces us with its rays as we welcome the new day—for our reality, and for us.

"There's one thing I forgot to mention…" I sheepishly start, "It's about my—"

…

"Well, maybe some other time."

Monika soundly sleeps on her desk, her arms acting as a pillow; a gentle smile spans across her weary feature. I reach out to caress her hair only to reel upon realizing the wall that still divides us, the obstacle that will continue to exist until time immemorial. It reminds me of the time we had a discussion about the 'hedgehog dilemma', how she thought it was impossible for us to hurt one another the closer we are due to the difference in our reality; I don't think you would believe that statement if we have the same discussion now. This obstacle, this wall that divides us stands as a testament of how real the 'dilemma' can be. Until the time where we can find that special day, a way for us to be together, I will remain by your side for as long as my life allows it.

I slink down and lean forward, cradling my head on my arms and allow fatigue to take over what function I have left, dimming my vision to black and leading me to a slumber.

…

I promise…

Author's Note



Apologies for the slight delay! I was slightly distracted by KC:D and had to do a double-take on some of the scenes projected here-had to make it perfect. :