The next morning came too soon.
I woke up to the sound of my alarm—a sharp, intrusive beep that cut through the remnants of my fitful sleep. I lay in bed for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling, trying to gather the willpower to move. My body felt heavy, as if all the grief and exhaustion from the past few days had turned my limbs into lead. I didn't want to get up. I didn't want to face the day.
But the world didn't care about what I wanted.
Work was waiting for me.
I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger's—dark circles under my eyes, my skin pale, my lips pressed into a thin, emotionless line. I barely recognized myself. It was like the person staring back at me had been hollowed out, emptied of everything that once made her whole.
I turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto my face, hoping it would wake me up. But the cold only reminded me of the snow from the night before, of the emptiness outside the window, of the silence that filled the house now that Nodoka was gone. Everything felt like a reminder of loss, of absence, of Sakuta.
I dressed mechanically, pulling on the clothes I had set aside the night before. My usual routine felt foreign now, like I was going through the motions of a life that no longer fit. I moved slowly, not because I was physically tired, but because every step toward the day felt like a step further away from him.
As I left the house, the cold morning air bit at my skin. The streets were still dusted with snow, though the early rays of sunlight were beginning to melt it away. People moved around me, hurrying to their destinations, oblivious to the weight I was carrying. They went about their lives as if nothing had changed. And for them, nothing had.
But everything had changed for me.
When I arrived at the studio, I felt a pang of anxiety. I hadn't been here since… since everything. The sight of the familiar building felt surreal, like I was returning to a place I no longer belonged. My legs carried me inside, even though a part of me wanted to turn around and run.
The hallways were bustling with activity. People greeted me, smiling as they always did, as if nothing was different. I forced myself to smile back, but it felt wrong, like my face wasn't used to the expression anymore. I made my way to the dressing room, where my manager was already waiting.
She glanced up from her phone when I walked in. "Good morning, Mai," she said, her tone professional but warm. "How are you holding up?"
I hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to answer. How was I holding up? Not well. Not at all. But I couldn't say that. Not here. Not when everyone was expecting me to work, to perform, to be the person they needed me to be.
"I'm okay," I lied, sitting down at the makeup station.
She nodded, her eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than usual. "If you need to take a break, just let me know," she said, her voice softer now. "We can push things back if you're not ready."
I wanted to take her up on the offer. I wanted to say, "Yes, I need more time. I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for any of this." But I didn't. Instead, I shook my head. "I'll be fine."
She didn't push me any further. Instead, she gave me a small smile and handed me the script for today's shoot. "You've got this," she said, her usual confidence in me shining through. "Let's take it one step at a time."
I nodded and opened the script, trying to focus on the words in front of me. But my mind kept wandering, drifting back to thoughts of Sakuta, of how he would tease me for taking work too seriously. He always knew how to pull me out of my head, to remind me that there was more to life than work. But now, without him here, work was all I had left.
The day blurred together, each scene blending into the next. I delivered my lines, hit my marks, smiled and laughed when I was supposed to. From the outside, everything seemed fine. But on the inside, I was disconnected, like I was watching myself from a distance, going through the motions without feeling any of it.
During a break between scenes, I found myself alone in a quiet corner of the studio. I stared down at my phone, my thumb hovering over Sakuta's contact. I had done this countless times since his death—pulled up his name, his number, as if I could somehow reach him. As if I could somehow hear his voice again.
But the phone stayed silent, just like it always did.
I let out a shaky breath and closed the app, slipping the phone back into my pocket. There was no point in torturing myself like this. Sakuta was gone. No amount of wishing would bring him back.
I leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the noise around me. It was all too much—being here, pretending like everything was fine, pretending like I hadn't lost the one person who made this world feel bearable.
But I had to keep going. I had to keep pretending. Because that's what was expected of me.
When the day finally ended, I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. I had made it through. Barely. I gathered my things and made my way to the exit, avoiding eye contact with anyone as I left the building. The thought of having to talk to anyone, to explain how I was feeling, was too much.
The walk home was quiet, the streets less busy now that the sun had set. Snow still clung to the sidewalks, and I found myself staring down at it as I walked, my thoughts drifting back to that night. The night I waited for him. The night everything fell apart.
When I got home, the silence hit me again. The house felt even emptier now, as if the weight of the day had drained whatever small amount of strength I had left. I dropped my bag by the door and sank down onto the couch, staring blankly at the darkened room.
For the first time in a long time, I didn't want to be alone.
But there was no one left to call.
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as I sat there in the quiet. The tears that had been threatening to spill all day finally broke free, slipping down my cheeks in slow, silent streams. I didn't wipe them away. I didn't try to stop them. I just let them fall.
Because in that moment, there was nothing else I could do.
Tomorrow would come, and I would have to get up and do it all over again. I would have to keep pretending, keep going through the motions. But tonight, in the quiet of my empty house, I let myself grieve. I let myself feel the weight of everything I had lost.
And for the first time, I allowed myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—it was okay not to be okay.
