Prologue

"I really loved him," she had said.

It had already been a week since she let loose that torrent of words and tears, but even now, Akira couldn't seem to get those words out of his head. Shuffling into the city streets, he shoves his hands in his pockets and lets out a sigh; a breath of white fills the air with a momentary warmth, then dissipates.

Perhaps a small part of him is jealous. He had spent the brunt of his life believing that out of all the members of F4, Tsukasa would be the last to fall in love, the last to be fallen in love with. But somehow he had gotten through the first eighteen years of his life loving others with an inscrutable passion, but yet never receiving that degree of love in return.

And there before him had sat Shigeru, who loved Tsukasa with all of that passion he so desperately coveted. This tiny, trembling girl, eyes filled with tears--was this really the Shigeru he tried to lure away from Tsukasa? Was she really the girl who locked her arm around his and tugged him into the front seat of a roller coaster?

It was, but it also wasn't.

That day, he wanted to offer some small word of comfort, but his tongue was dried to the top of his mouth. Instead, he stood up and placed a hand on her head and forced out the only words that would come:

"Let's go."

He walked her home, but he could only vaguely remember what they talked about on the way there; he had said something to lighten the mood and Shigeru had laughed, and by the time they reached the Okawahara residence they were both in higher spirits than they had been before they met. Shigeru's tears had completely disappeared, replaced by her trademark grin.

At the gate, she spun around to face him.

"Akira-kun!" she pronounced.

That grin of hers softened into a smile.

"Thanks."

And at that moment, staring down into Shigeru's smiling face, all he could think of was how her love had been wasted on Tsukasa.

Maybe it was just jealousy, after all.

It had already been a month since he broke up with Makoto.

To say that she was pretty would have been an understatement; she exemplified the qualities most men found attractive in a woman—large feminine eyes, layered hair that perfectly framed her symmetrical face, a small slightly upturned nose. Though her age placed her closer to thirty than to twenty, there was something girlish about Makoto that endeared her to him.

"Have you ever thought about becoming a makeup artist?" he asked her once.

It was raining terribly that day, and yet somehow, she still managed to step into the café as if she had just stepped into his world from a mail-order catalogue—every strand of hair perfectly in place, lips still the luscious shade of rose she wore every time they met. Had he not seen her walk in herself, he would have thought she had snuck off to the bathroom for a quick reapplication.

She took a seat and gazed across the table from him with earnest eyes. "You really think I'd be good at it, Akira-kun?"

"Hmm," he murmured, as if mulling the idea over his head.

Her lips pulled into a sulk. "Akira-kun…"

He relented with a smile. "Of course. I've never dated a woman who always looked as well-groomed as you."

This response seemed to please her, though one look outside the window transformed her smile into a displeased frown. "The weather out is terrible today," she observed unhappily. "I can hardly believe it's just fall!"

They spent their days together just like that, sharing tiny fractures of their lives and half-hearted observations on day-to-day events. He knew little about her home life—only that she had a husband; she knew nothing about his father, the head of a yakuza syndicate.

But despite the simplicity of their relationship, he enjoyed it. Had he not overheard her conversation from the bathroom hall, he probably would still be with her today, drinking café au lait over lunch and discussing the art of makeup application.

Old lady boy, he thinks.

I love you, but…

Every relationship he has been in has ended with a realization—that his partner doesn't love him as much as they love something else—be it their husband, their children, or their current lifestyle. It was his fault for doing this to himself—for putting himself in these sorts of situations. Had he been like Tsukasa or Soujirou and fallen in love with a girl his own age, maybe he wouldn't have had to experience the familiar pain of heartbreak as frequently as he did year in and year out. Their declarations of love were never interrupted by unpleasant three-letter conjunctions or furious boyfriends.

Still, somehow, it didn't seem fair. He had always seen himself as the most practical, the most considerate member of F4. He was a competent cook and could mend an outfit if it came to it; he had the empathy that the other members of F4 lacked, and had little problem setting his own feelings aside if he had to.

And yet, it was Tsukasa—whose tactlessness was unlike anything else Akira had witnessed, whose charm was all but nonexistent, who couldn't even cook up a romantic date let alone an omelet—who had two women devoted to him.

It was probably jealousy, he decides.

Snow flutters down from the sky as he reminisces, hands tucked firmly into pockets.

And that is how Mimasaka Akira spent the beginning of his eighteenth year, reminiscing over old loves.