Words That Didn't Fade Away | Short Story

At night, words can be a little more honest.
The feelings that were neatly organized during the day
unravel in the silence.

I placed a sheet of white paper on the desk.
The fountain pen ink was a little dry,
as if it were hesitating to begin.

“What I want to tell you now”

I started to write that, then stopped.
If I started like that,
it would feel as if it were guaranteed to reach you,
and that scared me a little.

* * *

The last time I gave you words,
was probably that day.
They weren't proper words.
They were a bit rough, a bit lacking,
and somehow, I was in a hurry.
Even though there was so much more I wanted to say.

Like, thank you.
Like, I'm sorry.
Like, I was actually happy at that time.

Those kinds of common words,
that can only be said after the fact,

none of them made it in time.

* * *

When I try to remember that day,
for some reason, only the sounds remain vivid.

The small sound of a cup being set down.
The faint scraping sound of a chair being pulled back.
The sound of cars passing by outside the window.

I don't remember the words very well.
Surely, we must have been talking properly, but
what we were talking about is already vague.
It's just that, I didn't think
“this might be the last time” back then.
That's why I didn't choose my words carefully.
I thought that even if they were a bit messy, there would be a next time.
I believed somewhere that I could say them later, no matter how many.

* * *

But the next time never came.
Or rather, maybe it did come.
It just didn't return in the same form anymore.

The atmosphere of that time,
that distance, that silence.

* * *

Even so,
people are strange, and we keep holding onto
the words that never reached.
We keep them deep in our pockets, without showing anyone.
Sometimes we take them out,
notice that they still hold some warmth,
and feel a little relieved.

Even though I shouldn't have been able to give them to you,
for some reason, they don't fade.
Rather, while changing their shape little by little,
they continue to remain here.

* * *

That's why I thought I would try writing them.
A letter that could never reach you.

It's okay if it's too late, or if it's meaningless.
It's just that the words here are certain.

* * *

To you.

I knew that you were watching me properly
back then.
I also knew that even if I said nothing,
you understood me properly.
Even so,
I pretended to understand and gave nothing back.
I felt like they would break if I put them into words.
But because I didn't put them into words, they didn't reach you, did they?
That has been bothering me for a long time.

But you know,
lately, I think a little bit.

Even if I can't convey everything,
even if I can't receive everything,
isn't it possible that people
can still have moments where they truly understand each other?
Even if it's not perfect, even if it's a little lacking.

So, this letter,
it's okay if it doesn't reach you.
Somewhere,
if it can just touch the wind a little,
and melt into the night little by little, that's enough.

Instead—

To you, who are reading this.

If there is something you want to tell someone right now,
I want you to try putting it into words, just a little.
It doesn't have to be beautiful.
It doesn't have to be coherent.

Before it's too late—

* * *

On the desk at night,
the ink finally began to flow.
The finished letter,
without being given to anyone,
is quietly tucked away in a drawer.

But that's okay.

The purpose of words isn't just to reach someone.
Because remaining,
can also save someone, just a little.

For the sake of feelings that haven't faded yet.

It's not that I want to return to that day.
I just think, if only I could give one word to myself on that day.

And that is surely,
directed in the same way to my current self, and to you who are reading this.

So—

To you, who might still be able to convey it.