Tokyo Yandere Girlfriend

Chapter 15

Shiratori Seiya was convinced that Hojo Shione had never been good at pretending.

He stood in the shade of the ginkgo, a pace behind her, the air above the asphalt quivering in the heat. His gaze tracked the tremor in her narrow shoulders, the knuckles white around her umbrella handle.

At 165 cm, Shione was tall for her age, and years of competitions had given her a poise that made people turn even when her face was hidden. Today, though, she looked like a gingko leaf gone brittle—yellow, thin, ready to crumble at the lightest touch.

Seiya watched her walk away, one step, two...

Thud, thud, thud...

Each footfall seemed to land not on the ground but against the walls of his chest.

He started after her.

Putting on a brave face, spitting out some self-serving nonsense, then vanishing—it was more than he could stomach. Cold-blooded, she'd called him, and the verdict felt fair. Yet the sight of her like this scraped him raw.

If she'd screamed and cursed and called him every name in the book, he would have taken it in silence, even welcomed the punishment. Instead she swallowed everything, grinding herself down—and him with her.

Years apart and she was still the same, taking every blow without complaint.

A restless heat flared under Seiya's ribs. He tugged at his collar and decided to speak.

Letters were a coward's escape.

"I'll walk you a little farther."

His shadow fell across her path. Shione stopped, a flicker of something like hope darting through her tear-swollen eyes.

So he still has a conscience.

The burn in her chest eased a fraction. She turned her face away, hiding behind one sleeve.

"I'm fine, really," she muttered, scuffing a pebble. "It's not far..."

Jerk. You still can't let me go.

She bit her lip and looked up, lashes wet.

"Seiya, is there anything else you want to say?"

"...Yeah."

He nodded, the words turning over twice before they left his mouth.

"I just—I want you to be okay."

Shione's gaze turned reproachful.

"Your gift is yours," he went on. "It won't vanish just because I'm gone. You'll still rise—no matter whose songs you sing."

"I hope you can make peace with... this. With us. Time smooths everything out. Even if we're not together, I want you to stop tearing yourself up."

Silence pooled between them.

Shione tilted her head. "That's it?"

Seiya blinked. "Yeah."

She sighed, a soft, exhausted sound. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"Tell me—why did I ever want to be a singer?"

"You think I loved music that much? That I enjoyed eight-hour practice marathons? That I liked forcing down liters of water, babying my throat, rehearsing till dawn for some stupid contest?"

"If it weren't for you, I'd never have chosen this road. You have no idea what you meant to me."

Her voice cracked; fresh tears spilled.

"I do love singing now. I love the lights, the stage, the eyes on me. But the person who cheered me on isn't there anymore, and the stage feels hollow."

"You shoved me through that door, slammed it shut, and walked away. Then you pat yourself on the back and say, 'You'll be fine without me.'"

Her words sharpened, rising to a trembling crescendo. "That's cruel. That's—"

The last syllable cracked like a whip. Passers-by paused, drawn by the drama. Phones angled for a better view.

Shione snatched Seiya's wrist and bolted around the corner. When they were alone, she let out a shaky breath.

"I respect your decision," she said quietly. "We weren't married; a breakup only needs one signature, right?"

She ground the word married between her teeth and gave his foot a vindictive stomp.

"Just—don't be this cruel to the next girl."

A small smile flickered. "Oh, right—Miss Aoki asked me to ask: are you really done writing songs?"

Miss Aoki—Aoki Yayoi—was Shione's producer. Every track Seiya had ever sold had gone through her.

"She's furious you vanished, changed your number, left her hanging. Said money could've been negotiated, but ghosting her was low."

I'm never writing another song.

He almost said it, but looking into Shione's eyes, the words twisted.

"Probably not," he admitted.

"I'll tell her that, then?"

"Mm."

Shione laughed, a dreamy, lopsided sound. "So every song you ever wrote... was for me. Romantic, in a way."

Her smile faded. "Well, that's everything. We've both said what we needed."

She pointed toward a black sedan idling at the curb. "My ride's right there. Don't bother."

Seiya watched her go. What was left to say?

Let's get back together? I'll write for you again? You can quit and be a housewife—leave the money to me?

Too late for empty promises.

He stood on the pavement until the car disappeared, then finally turned away.

Buzz.

His phone vibrated. The screen lit up with a message from Shione.

You said time heals every wound. But leaving you still feels like yesterday.