There was no warning when Tomoe left, just an empty desk that appeared in the classroom one day long before the end of the year.
The first day, Kyousuke wondered if Tomoe had fallen ill, and he tried calling him, but no one answered. The second day, he sent an e-mail as well, but that too received no reply. By the third day, he was worried, and he went to Tomoe's house in person, but no one was home. He left a note slipped under the door, but he never heard back.
It wasn't until a week later that he finally found an answer. He and Heath had gone to Tomoe's house together after practice, and Tomoe's younger brother had answered the door, looking pale and haunted. He had said only "he left; he's in America now" before closing the door again.
Kyousuke took that information and tried again. He sent e-mails and text messages, all saying variants of "I heard you're in America now. I miss you and hope you're well." When those received no reply either, he turned to the forums he knew Tomoe had frequented, but Tomoe's account on all of them had remained dormant since the day he disappeared.
If it weren't for the occasional mention on the international Stride forums of a black-haired Japanese boy winning races in the States, Kyousuke would have begun to wonder if it had all been a dream. If the days he and Tomoe had spent running together, and the nights they had spent sharing a bed were all mere figments of his imagination.
Six months after Tomoe left, he wondered if perhaps it would have been better that way. If the ghost touches he still half-remembered were better relegated to the realm of fantasy than of reality. He could still faintly remember the feelings of what had been, but maybe it would hurt less if he let them live on as nothing more than a dream. Something he had imagined and loved, but that never could be.
A year later, an envelope arrived in his mailbox. It was badly battered as if it had been on a long journey. Inside, on a torn scrap of paper, were the words "I'm sorry" and a phone number. The same words and the same number had been crossed out multiple times before, as if the writer had hesitated even to say them.
That night, Kyousuke picked up the phone and called.
"Hello, Kyousuke," the voice on the other end of the line said, and Kyousuke knew that it hadn't been a dream after all.
FILL: TEAM GRANDSTAND, G
436 words
There was no warning when Tomoe left, just an empty desk that appeared in the classroom one day long before the end of the year.
The first day, Kyousuke wondered if Tomoe had fallen ill, and he tried calling him, but no one answered. The second day, he sent an e-mail as well, but that too received no reply. By the third day, he was worried, and he went to Tomoe's house in person, but no one was home. He left a note slipped under the door, but he never heard back.
It wasn't until a week later that he finally found an answer. He and Heath had gone to Tomoe's house together after practice, and Tomoe's younger brother had answered the door, looking pale and haunted. He had said only "he left; he's in America now" before closing the door again.
Kyousuke took that information and tried again. He sent e-mails and text messages, all saying variants of "I heard you're in America now. I miss you and hope you're well." When those received no reply either, he turned to the forums he knew Tomoe had frequented, but Tomoe's account on all of them had remained dormant since the day he disappeared.
If it weren't for the occasional mention on the international Stride forums of a black-haired Japanese boy winning races in the States, Kyousuke would have begun to wonder if it had all been a dream. If the days he and Tomoe had spent running together, and the nights they had spent sharing a bed were all mere figments of his imagination.
Six months after Tomoe left, he wondered if perhaps it would have been better that way. If the ghost touches he still half-remembered were better relegated to the realm of fantasy than of reality. He could still faintly remember the feelings of what had been, but maybe it would hurt less if he let them live on as nothing more than a dream. Something he had imagined and loved, but that never could be.
A year later, an envelope arrived in his mailbox. It was badly battered as if it had been on a long journey. Inside, on a torn scrap of paper, were the words "I'm sorry" and a phone number. The same words and the same number had been crossed out multiple times before, as if the writer had hesitated even to say them.
That night, Kyousuke picked up the phone and called.
"Hello, Kyousuke," the voice on the other end of the line said, and Kyousuke knew that it hadn't been a dream after all.