I looked at him — this strange, tired, crooked-smile boy with a broken bike and a photography magazine. And for the first time in 29 days, I didn’t feel the weight of “what if.”
That night, I ate cold convenience store onigiri in my 6-tatami apartment. The seaweed was soggy. I cried for exactly seven minutes — the length of a shower — and then I told myself: No more. soredemo ashita kareshi
“No, my fault,” he said. His voice was low and a little hoarse. “I was reading while walking. Terminal condition.” I looked at him — this strange, tired,