Episode 26 — Now I Think Only of You

I like rereading my own fiction. It brings back, with surprising clarity, what I was thinking and feeling at the time, and what I’d intended by each turn of phrase. There are passages that seem clumsy compared to now, of course — but I imagine the same will be true when I look back from further ahead. Feeling the clumsiness is proof that I’ve grown, which makes even that something to be glad of.

As it happens, right now I’m rereading a section I wrote not long ago. And what I’m feeling as I do is not that kind of positive satisfaction — rather, I’m being ambushed by something much closer to anguish and embarrassment.

Because this is practically a love letter.

I was writing it during the rainy season, exactly when Shion had stopped appearing in the music room. The feelings have been entrusted to the protagonist — but there they are: the loneliness that scorched me during the time apart, the yearning, the outsized emotions all directed at the heroine.

Which are exactly the feelings I had been directing at Shion.

At the time, I was intoxicated by those feelings — but now, reading them back in a clearer state of mind, everything is so exposed, so bare. Knowing this has been published to the entire world, I can’t help but want to disappear. I wonder if the old poets who had their love songs included in the Hyakunin Isshu are sitting now — in heaven or in hell — suffering the same kind of embarrassment.

Even escaping into that idle thought doesn’t change what I’ve done.

And truly — I’m so glad Shion doesn’t know that I write fiction. If something happened and she read these words — this thing that amounts to a published love letter — I could never look her in the face again. Being in the same room as her would be enough to make me combust. I’ve finally made my first friend, and at the very moment of it, I would want to leave this world entirely.

And Shion — if she read something like this, surely she wouldn’t want to stay close to me either. An emotion far too heavy to direct at a brand new friend. What’s more, one I’ve committed to writing, and sent out into the sea of the internet.

Even knowing how strange that is, how pathetic — I can’t seem to stop writing fiction. However much pain it brings, however miserable it makes me, I know I’ll keep writing. Which means this secret has to be kept until the grave — until the final note is placed on my life — never to be revealed.

Steeling myself to that resolve while rereading my own words — notifications keep flickering on. Hearts, stars received. A comment arrived.

It seems that the desperate emotional portrait of the period apart from Shion has landed well — because my novel, I Dedicate This Final Note to You, has begun quietly reaching more and more readers. Multiple comments arriving, appearing in the weekly rankings. Occasionally, and only rarely, I’d come across a stranger on Twitter mentioning the work. Being described with words like “enormous feelings,” “possessiveness,” “co-dependency” — mortifying, and yet gratifying too.

In the midst of all this change in the winds around the novel — one thing remaining constant.

Today again, a comment from Otonashi-san had arrived.

“Finally calling each other by name — I’m so glad. Having someone you love call you by your name makes you happy, doesn’t it ♪”.

Otonashi-san, whose writing is usually so measured and calm, has used a musical note emoji — which surprises me a little. Perhaps this particular episode pleased her more than usual. If so, that’s everything an author could ask for.

And from Otonashi-san’s comment, Shion comes to mind without effort. I find myself thinking about the transparent clarity of Uta spoken in that slightly lisping voice, and how adorable it is.

It’s true — when Shion calls my name, my heart goes soft and buoyant. My name, which I’d never liked, suddenly seems beautiful. Even the sound of that name — the one carrying my mother’s obsession inside it — I find I can’t help but love it.

Though that doesn’t make the guilt disappear.

I look around my small, solitary room. Today again my mother has gone to the night shift. On the bookshelf, Dazai and Akutagawa and Tanizaki and Miyazawa Kenji sit gathering dust.

The ruins of a dream she could no longer chase because of me. The price of carrying an irresponsible, selfish wastrel’s child — that alone breathes, at the centre of the room. A hopeless person, going on living hopelessly.

I won’t be able to stop writing fiction — but I’ll probably be facing this guilt my whole life. That’s what I thought.

So I wanted to see Shion soon. I wanted, beyond all help, to have that bell-clear, transparent voice call my name.