Chapter three. It's short. My apologies.

He hadn't moved for a while, watching the place he'd last seen the taxi as if it would return. It hadn't, and eventually he had returned inside in what he supposed dully was an advanced state of shock.

This was several weeks ago.

"If there are any letters," Watanuki had said. There had been, of course. Kunogi-san had sent several that he knew of. Each reply she received she read aloud, and Shizuka would listen with guilt. His wastebasket was filled with failed attempts in such a pursuit, and lately he hadn't been able to write anything at all. He wondered if Kunogi knew, and that was why she read the letters she received out loud. Even if that was the case, it didn't make him feel any better.

Shizuka was sitting at his desk again, staring at a blank sheet of paper and wondering what he could possible write. He'd never been any good at verbalisation, even when speaking. Here he was at a complete loss, although that at least was achingly normal. He was always at a loss wherever Watanuki was concerned.

But what to say? Should he mention that last day when he'd finally decided to hell with self-restraint, or not? Was that something he shouldn't bring up? Would it even make a difference at this point?

…No, it really wouldn't. Which was the worst part.

This was getting him nowhere. Surely there was something to say, something that had been hinted to exhaustion in the years they'd squandered in that petty one-sided rivalry. But the only thing that thought led to was an apology, which would have failed miserably and not made the impression it should. Watanuki did not accept apologies in the same way that Shizuka did not accept thanks. This probably played a large part in the their difficulties, but also perhaps in their friendship, because Shizuka did not customarily regret, and Watanuki didn't know how to accept.

And what was impossible in words would be no more plausible in writing. So that part would be kept to himself, as most things were, and Shizuka was still stuck for something to write in the infuriatingly blank letter. What did one generally write in letters? Was that even applicable? If anything, he should avoid the 'normal' things to write, because their situation was about as abnormal as it could get.

"Mail, Shizuka," his mother called, and he looked up in surprise. He never got mail…

--

Later, the letter he'd received lay open on the desk, and he was scribbling furiously. The wastebasket had been emptied and was filled over halfway again with discarded messages. "I'm going to be going…" could be read from where he sat, and he shook his head at his own failure to write a decent letter.

He stared at what he'd just written ("I won't be able to write you anything for a while") before crumpling it and tossing it to join the rest. It was becoming progressively harder to say what he needed to, but he refused to give up and disappear without a word. He would write something before the night was up.

The letter addressed to him was from a generic university he'd applied to in an uninterested attempt to make some backup plans. He'd been accepted. A few weeks ago, he might have ignored it, or sent it to the same fate that met all his own failed letter. But he'd thought about it for a while, and then made arrangements to leave to see it for the next day. If he was going to be living a fairly normal life now, he might as well start properly.

And he would start by succeeding in writing a letter.

He continued his staring match with the blank sheet before him a little while longer, and began to write again. "Watanuki – "

That looked strange. He never called Watanuki by name. But "hey" or "oi" were not such good openers for a letter, either. He'd just start without a salutation, then. It wasn't as if one would be expected, even if it did look odd.

After five more tries, he surveryed his results and yawned hugely. The clock informed him that the time was past two in the morning and that he really should sleep. This draft would have to do, even if it wasn't absolutely perfect. And there was always the next letter. He'd eventually get better at this, just like he'd gotten better at anticipating when to carry his bow and hearing the hidden meanings in what was said at a yell but meant in a whisper.

The next morning, he made one stop as he walked to the train station. It was not nearly as eventful as Watanuki's one stop had been, but perhaps it was more productive.

He left the letter like a promise on the doorstep, not really wanting to knock and see who would answer in lieu of Watanuki. And he looked back, merely a glance, as he walked away, and wondered if it were a promise made in vain.