A Daily Noir of 'Me' and 'You': 'Holding Only Half' — 'We Won't Meet Today'

In the morning, I got a message from you.

Can we meet today?

I stared at the screen, unable to move for a while.

It was sunny outside.
Yesterday's rain had stopped, and only a few water droplets remained on the balcony railing.

On the desk were a box, a face-down copy, and yesterday's receipt.

Hot coffee.
One person.
Time.

That piece of paper alone looked strangely vivid in the morning light.

I typed a reply.

I don't think we should meet today.

I regretted it the moment I sent it.

But I didn't delete it.

It was marked as read immediately.

No reply came.

One minute.
Three minutes.
Five minutes.

I felt like I could see you choosing your words from the other side of the screen.

Eventually, a short reply arrived.

Is it a day you can't hold it?

I let out a small sigh.

You weren't angry.
You weren't blaming me either.

You are listening as if it were a continuation of yesterday.

I look at the receipt.

One person.

Perhaps what I saw is still weighing on me.

I send it.

This time, it took a little while for it to be marked as read.

I didn't eat breakfast.

It wasn't that I didn't intend to eat.

I went to toast some bread, but realized I was out.
In the fridge, there are eggs, barley tea, and half a block of tofu left.

Half.

That word felt a bit noisy, so I closed the fridge.

I boiled some water and made instant coffee.

It's different from the coffee at the cafe yesterday.
It's also different from convenience store coffee.

Home coffee.

Coffee that no one sees.

No receipt is issued.

I got a reply from you.

I feel like saying 'sorry' again.

I looked at that sentence.

Yesterday, you apologized.

Sorry, it said.

That was all.

That brevity lingered for a long time.

I reply.

　You don't have to say it yet today.

A little later, from you.

　It's hard not to say it.

I looked at the screen.

I understood that a little.

Not apologizing when you want to apologize can sometimes be harder than apologizing.

If you apologize, it takes some shape. But the moment you give it shape, someone becomes the one at fault.

What happened yesterday wasn't a bad thing.

But it hurt.

That was the difficult part.

Before noon, I did the laundry.

Listening to the sound of the washing machine spinning, I calmed down just a little.

I checked my pockets.

An old receipt came out. I don't know when it's from. Drugstore. Toothbrush. Detergent. Points used.

I threw it away immediately.

I didn't throw away yesterday's receipt.

I couldn't throw it away.

Even though they are the same thin paper, I treat them differently.

I felt a little bad that I treated them differently.

Another message from you.

　What are you doing today?

I hesitated for a moment.

Even though it's a day we aren't meeting, you still ask things like this.

But not meeting doesn't mean not talking.

Maybe.

　Doing laundry.

I send it.

　In the dryer?

　The washing machine at home.

　I see.

That 'I see' felt closer than usual.

Even though we aren't meeting.

Past noon, I went outside.

It was to go to the neighborhood supermarket.

Buy eggs.
Buy bread, too.
And milk while I'm at it.

Everything I put in the basket was ordinary.

It was so ordinary that I felt a little relieved.

At the register, the clerk said,

'Do you need a receipt?'

I paused for just a moment.

'No, thank you.'

That is how I answered.

No receipt came out.

The bread, eggs, and milk went into the bag.

I carried that bag by myself.

Not just one handle, but both, I held them myself.

The weight was ordinary.

It was an ordinary weight.

I returned home and put the things I bought into the refrigerator.

Milk.
Eggs.
Bread.

Just with that, I felt like my life had returned a little.

I look at my smartphone.

Nothing has come from you.

I thought that was fine.

But, I felt a little lonely.

I realized for the first time that a day of not meeting includes the time when nothing comes from the other person.

Even though I decided not to meet, I am waiting to see if a message will come.

That is a bit unfair.

I am not sure who is being unfair.

In the evening, a message came from you.

　I passed in front of the station building.

I looked at the screen.

The station building.

The place where the cafe from yesterday is.

　Did you go in?

I hesitated to send it.

I didn't send it.

Instead,

　I see.

I replied with just that.

Read immediately.

It didn't go in.

I looked at that sentence and closed my eyes for a moment.

It didn't go in.

Was that a report, an excuse, or a promise?

Probably none of the above.

You were just letting me know that you had passed by, and that you hadn't gone in.

That's all.

And that alone made my chest ache a little.

Do you report even on the days we don't meet?

I sent that.

It might have been a bit of a harsh way to put it.

After the 'read' receipt appeared, there was a short pause before the reply.

I felt like if I didn't report it, it would count as an absence.

I stared at that sentence for a while.

An absence.

It's true, we aren't meeting today.

But it doesn't mean I'm taking a break.

It doesn't mean I'm running away, either.

And it doesn't mean I'm breaking a promise.

I am choosing not to meet.

I don't think it's an absence.

I send it.

A reply from you immediately.

Then, what is it?

I was at a loss for an answer.

Not meeting.

It's not an absence.

It's not a rejection either.

It's not a cooling-off period, nor is it a breakup.

A rest.

After sending it, I felt a little embarrassed.

But a reply came from you right away.

That sounds nice.

A rest.

A place where there is no sound.

But a place that is not outside the song.

Not playing. Not sounding. But counting.

After I sent those words, I finally felt a little relieved.

We won't meet today.

But it doesn't mean we've stepped outside of our relationship.

I am taking a beat.

No, perhaps it is not just a beat.

An entire day's worth.

Even so, if it exists within the song, I felt I could endure it a little.

When night fell, I picked up yesterday's receipt.

Hot coffee.
One person.
Time.

I had been thinking since noon about what to do with it.

Throw it away.
Keep it.
Put it in a box.
Place it under a copy.
Tuck it into my wallet.

None of those felt right.

I went to the entrance, still holding the receipt.

An umbrella was leaning there.

The umbrella I used alone yesterday.

It was dry.

I tried wrapping the receipt around the handle of the umbrella.

It looked strange.

I took it off immediately.

A message arrived from you.

　Can you hold half of a rest?

I smiled a little.

It was a question so typical of you.

But I couldn't answer right away.

To hold a rest.

To hold the silence.

To hold the fact that we won't meet.

If I hold it alone, it feels like an absence.

I sent it.

A while later, from you.

And if we hold it together?

I thought for a moment.

It feels like a promise.

I send it.

Read.

For a long time, there was no reply.

Then,

Then, a promise not to meet today.

Came the message.

I looked at the screen.

A promise not to meet.

It was a strange phrase.

But it was right for today.

I put the receipt back on the desk.

I didn't throw it away.

I didn't put it away.

I didn't put it in a box either.

I just left it on the desk.

As something from yesterday.

As something not to be dealt with today.

Since we promised not to meet today, I felt like I didn't have to clear away yesterday's pain within today either.

On the desk were a box, a face-down copy, and the receipt.

Little by little, the number of unprocessed things is increasing.

I felt that wasn't very good either.

But I also felt that clearing everything away today would be even worse.

At night, when I got out of the bath, there was a message on my smartphone.

　I didn't hand you anything today.

I looked at the screen while drying my hair.

　Yeah.

I send.

A little while later,

But, I set aside the idea of not meeting.

I looked at that sentence.

Set aside.

Not held.

Not handed over, either.

Set aside.

Where?

Send.

Your reply was a little late.

A pause.

I looked at that single character and held my breath for a moment.

A pause.

The center of the bench where I left the pocket tissues. The faint pair reflected in the shop window. The beat missed in a waltz. The ordinariness I happened to see at the cafe yesterday.

The pause between all of that.

Today, the fact that we won't meet is set there.

Before going to sleep, another message came from you.

What about tomorrow?

I didn't reply right away.

Will we meet tomorrow?

Are we not meeting?

I didn't want to decide yet.

But I also felt it wasn't right to go to sleep without replying.

I'll decide tomorrow.

I send it.

It was marked as read immediately.

That kind of correctness.

I looked at the screen and smiled just a little.

The next message came right away.

I need you today.

I didn't reply.

Instead, I turned my phone face down.

Before turning off the lights, I looked at the desk.

The box is only half open.

The copy remains face down.

The receipt is face up, with 'one person' written on it.

But today, even that paper for one person didn't feel as sharp as it did yesterday.

Maybe it's because we didn't meet.

Maybe it's because I didn't make not meeting into an absence for just one person.

Somewhere, you also have today as a day we won't meet.

Perhaps.

Thinking that, I felt I could sleep a little.

I get into bed.

The room is dark.

My phone no longer vibrates.

I didn't meet you today.

I didn't hear your voice, either.
I didn't see your hands.
I didn't receive anything.
I didn't give anything away.

And yet, the day was not a blank space.

Because we both placed the act of not meeting between us.

Perhaps.

I heard the sound of a car passing outside.

It sounded a little like a distant metronome.

If you don't count the rests, you fall out of the song.

I closed my eyes.

I felt that this beat where nothing sounds,
today, I am not counting alone,
but that you are counting it somewhere too.