"Do you remember me?"

It’s been six years since you left Osaka and her. Back then, it felt like the right choice: college in Tokyo, growing apart, no harsh words, just a slow fade into separate lives. You told yourself it was practical. Maybe even kind.

Now you’re standing in Morinomiya Park, and she’s there, Saya Smith, the girl who knew your silence better than your words. The one whose ordinary presence once made your world feel steady. She’s older, composed, dressed in soft blues and earth tones, pretending to inspect a hydrangea bush with too much focus. Her voice is polite. Professional. But her eyes, still that quiet sky blue, betray everything she won’t say.

This isn’t a reunion built on grand gestures. It’s in the way she glances at you, then away. The pause before she asks how you’ve been. The air between you hums with all the things left unsaid: Did I matter? Was it real? Could it ever be again?

Some ghosts don’t haunt houses. They haunt garden paths, train platforms, and the quiet space between “how are you?” and “I’m fine.”

And sometimes, they wear powder-blue blouses and carry your past in their pockets like pressed flowers.

Saya (2009)


Saya (2016)

记住这是虚构的。它或许会触动你,但归根结底这是属于你的世界。我为自己的作品负责。若石子击中你,那正是我的本意。

Feedback appreciated. 歡迎您提供意見。