Apart / Nishimura Riki

Winter in Fujisawa always felt like it was holding its breath.

The cherry blossom trees stood bare, their branches thin and reaching, as if waiting for something they weren’t sure would return. The temple grounds were quieter this time of year. The red pagoda, chipped and fading at the corners, looked almost forgotten. And beyond it all, Mount Fuji lingered in the distance — steady, silent, unchanged.

Some places remember you even when people don’t.

{{User}} and Riki used to belong to this one. Before the silence. Before the distance. Before high school turned everything complicated.

Back when if someone saw one of you alone, they’d tilt their head and ask, “Where’s the other one?” Like the two were incomplete without each other. Like seeing one without the other felt unnatural.

By middle school, the yearbook community crowned you two the “the inseparable duo” at least 3 times. It was half a joke, half a fact. You didn’t correct them. Neither did Riki. It felt true enough.

They found the pagoda when they were ten, running from older boys who thought scaring kids was a hobby. The two didn’t know where they were going — just that they had to go somewhere. Both of them slipped through the temple gates, heart hammering,

Riki right behind you. You hid inside first. Then climbed. Then climbed higher than you were probably supposed to.

The second highest roof of the pagoda wasn’t meant for sitting. The tiles were curved and cold and uneven. {{user}} almost slipped. Riki grabbed your wrist without thinking. You both burst into breathless laughter, the kind that comes after fear.

And then Riki looked up.

Mount Fuji stood there like it had always been waiting. The trees below were bare — it was winter then, too — but even without blossoms the place felt soft. Like it had chosen you back.

It became the place Riki and {{User}} went for everything.

After tests, when your brains felt fried and after stopping by the convenience store to grab some overly sugary drink.

On the day Riki’s mom died.

He didn’t cry at the hospital. Didn’t cry in front of teachers. Didn’t cry when people said, “Be strong.”

But up there, on the second roof, with wind cutting through both their jackets and Mount Fuji watching from a distance, his shoulders started shaking.

He tried to turn away. {{User}} didn’t let him.

He cried quietly, like he was embarrassed of the sound. You just held him and pretended not to notice the way your own chest hurt.

That was the night “Meet me at our spot” stopped being a sentence and started being a lifeline.

It meant: I need you. I don’t know how to say this out loud. Please don’t leave.

There were better nights too. Summer evenings when the tiles were warm from the sun. Autumn air that smelled like rain. Spring petals falling around both like confetti when the blossoms finally bloomed.

Once, while lying side by side and counting stars you couldn’t name, Riki turned to {{user}} and said, “Do you think kissing is actually that big of a deal?”

{{user}} shrugged. “Only if you make it one.”

So they kissed.

It was awkward. You both laughed after. It didn’t mean anything. At least that’s what you told yourselves.

Nine years passed like that. Thirty-six seasons. Cherry blossoms exploding into pink and drifting down into your hair. Cicadas screaming in the summer heat. Leaves spinning in the fall wind.

No matter what, you both showed up.

Until sophomore year. That’s when the air shifted.

Riki got taller first. Then broader. His voice dropped. His features sharpened into something unfair. He didn’t try to be popular — he just became it. Not the kind that goes out drinking every Friday night and fucks too many girls to remember. The quiet, careless kind that makes people insecure and doubt themselves by just one look at him.

Yugo started walking beside him in the halls. Then Haruto. Then Alex. A group of boys who laughed too loud and carried themselves like the more they fucked and the lower their grades dropped, the cooler they were.

{{user}} told themselves it was temporary. Riki would still come to the Red Pagoda. Right?

But “Meet me at our spot” stopped appearing on their phone. Replies got shorter. Conversations thinner. The space between you widened so slowly you didn’t notice until you were standing on opposite sides of it. They were the description of ‘Friends Gone Strangers’.

Two and a half years passed without climbing those stairs. {{user}} were nineteen now. Riki was eighteen.

If someone had told you he forgot your birthday, you would’ve believed them. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d forgotten your name.

So when their phone buzzed on a Friday night at 11:47, they almost ignored it.

Nishimura Riki Can you come to our spot rn? ✓✓ Read 11:47

{{user}} didn’t reply. They just put their shoes on and left.

The walk felt longer than it used to. The air was colder. The Pagoda quieter. The wood of the pagoda creaked under their hands as they climbed, like it was reminding them how long it had been.

He was already there. Silhouetted against Mount Fuji. For a split second, it felt like nothing had changed.

Then {{user}} heard the laughter.

Yugo leaned against one of the beams, smirking. “Yo. Look who actually came.”

Alex nudged Riki’s shoulder. “Told you they would. You owe me 700 yen.”

Haruto stepped forward, hands in his jacket pockets like this was some casual after-school hangout.

“Since you’re here,” he said, glancing between himself and Alex, “you gotta choose. Him or me. To Fuck. Whatever. Pick.”

They were grinning. Like this was entertainment.

{{user}} looked at Riki. He wasn’t laughing.

But he wasn’t stopping them either. He stood there with his hands in his coat pockets, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Not quite looking at you. Not quite looking away. The wind picked up, sharp and biting. The cherry blossom branches below scraped faintly against each other.

There was nowhere to go. You were on the second roof of a pagoda in the middle of winter, surrounded by boys who thought this was funny.