Fuminori Nakamura - Last Winter We Parted

But that’s not what it was about. Of course, it’s true that I had been worried about you because you couldn’t see. But the problem was mine.

Six years before I met you, I was involved with someone else. I won’t tell you her name, but we were very much in love. All she said was that her stomach hurt a little bit, and I started to worry and asked her to go to the hospital. When she came back from the local clinic and said that it was nothing serious, I still wondered if she was all right, and I begged her to go to a bigger hospital where she could have a more thorough examination.

She gave me a strange look but, seeing the state I was in, she acquiesced and went to another hospital. When she returned and again said it was nothing, I was assured for the time being but — that’s how I always acted toward her.

If she said that she wasn’t feeling well, I became overly concerned that it was really the flu. I even asked her not to ride in cars. Me, who would never go to the hospital when I was ill. I made her go to the hospital so many times. I wore her down. That was the reason she left me.

After that, I started to think that maybe I ought to just avoid falling in love with anyone. I lived my life, taking care not to let anyone get too close to me. As far as I was concerned, having someone to love was too much to deal with. I could feel a quiet madness within me. If I loved someone with all my heart, my worries became unbearable, to the point where they got the better of me. I was powerless against this anxiety. There was no way for me to ignore even the slightest little worry. But … then I met you.

At the time, the doctor said that you were very lucky to have only broken your leg in the accident. Often, I took off from work and watched you when you left the house. To make sure you made it back home without getting in another accident. I shadowed you. I have no doubt that when your friend happened to spot me walking behind you, she must have thought it was creepy. You were so angry with me when she told you what I was doing. You had every right to be. “Did you think that I wouldn’t find out, because I can’t see?” you demanded. I was impossible. For some time now, a rift had been forming between us that would be difficult to repair. I followed you everywhere you went. When a car passed too close to you, I forced the driver to stop and got into an argument, while you cried and pleaded with me to stop. I forbade you to take the stairs. Or to go out. Or even to boil water.

I took my eyes off you. In that moment, I couldn’t guarantee your safety . Your life — and within that life, your self, which I could never quite perceive — went on, survived second after second. I don’t understand why, in the face of those we love, we can only acknowledge the one part we can see. I can’t help wondering about the you I couldn’t see.

When you told me that you wanted to live apart for a while, my vision receded to the point where I could only see a blurry version of your face. You had grown weary of putting up with the suffering I inflicted on myself. You, who had always been so active and lively, had been negatively impacted by my stubborn persistence. You still cared for me, you said softly, but if we didn’t spend some time apart, it would be bad for the both of us. With tears in your eyes, you tried to hold back your sobs. Your idea was unacceptable to me. But then again, it was also unacceptable for me to be a burden to you. From that day on, I always watched you from a distance.

The yellow tactile paving follows in a straight line from the station. When the yellow line meets the sidewalk along the main road, though, it suddenly disappears. This is your way home from the station. Every day, I was lying in wait for you as you made your way home along that yellow line. And that day, I waited all day to make sure that you were safe.

What made you notice me that time? On that day, I was sitting on a bench in the plaza in front of the station, and I saw you as you moved along the yellow line with your walking stick. I was relieved that, once again today, you were safe, and I watched for a while as you passed right by me. That was when you stopped in your tracks and turned to face me.

Was it my scent? Or was it just some sort of feeling? You were definitely aware of my presence. Of me, who was still watching you like a chaperon, even though we lived apart. Who would always follow you around. Who was unwilling to leave you. That day, your expression betrayed a trace of fear. Your face contorted, as if you were afraid of me. The next day, you did not walk along the yellow line. You chose another way, one that did not have tactile paving, a more dangerous route, in order to avoid me. So I stopped watching you.

It seemed better for me not to love anyone because I became a burden to the person I loved. I decided to throw myself into my work. To try to forget about you. I thought I could change myself. I forced myself to stifle my worries about you, trying to withstand the regular bouts of nausea that accompanied the effort. The nausea tended to well up around the same time in the evening that your traffic accident had occurred. I took time off from work and made myself go on a trip alone. Despite all this, I knew that I’d never be able to change, but it was the only thing I could do. When I returned from my trip, I was still the same, of course. But without a doubt, I knew that, at the very least, I absolutely needed to stop brooding about you. I even went to see a psychosomatic specialist, but he told me that I was “normal.”

But if I stopped worrying about someone, and then if I were to lose that person, then just who exactly would be to blame? When it comes to relationships, the more I love someone, the less I know what is appropriate. I thought about quitting my job and living somewhere far from Tokyo. If I stayed close, I’d end up looking for you again. And I didn’t want to frighten you any more. But, in my mind, I would never be able to move on from our time together.

It was about two weeks after I had left Tokyo and gone back to my hometown in Sendai, where I found a job as an editor at a local free paper. That’s when I found out about your death.

Fire at the home studio of photographer Yudai Kiharazaka. Female model dies. It was an article that I just happened to read in the newspaper. The moment I saw your name written there in small print, my heart started to pound, then it was helplessly racing and, the next thing I knew, my colleagues were holding me up. You were dead …? How could that be …? A photographer’s model …? The feel of my colleagues’ hands touching me suddenly made me sick. They felt like the hands of strangers. I was aware of the many fingers of my colleagues’ hands. I didn’t want anyone touching me. I shook free, stood up, and went to the bathroom, where I threw up. You were dead? My vision narrowed — all I could see was a tiny portion of tiled floor around the toilet. I quit my job right on the spot. I know it was unfair to my colleagues, but at the time, I couldn’t think of anything else besides you.

From there, although it seems strange even to me — since I had been drinking very heavily and, in my crazed state, didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone on the road — I took the bullet train. For some reason I put on a suit first. Oddly, it made me feel like I was standing up straighter. And then on the train, even though I already had several coffees that I hadn’t drunk lined up on the table in front of me, I kept ordering more from the vendor girl while people eyed me curiously.

When I got back to Tokyo, I didn’t go to the police to request the details, or give my name as a person involved. I was trying to keep my presence a secret, as much as possible. Probably by that time, something had already taken root in my mind. I met up with my former colleagues, reporters for a weekly magazine, and asked for the details about the incident. Both the police and the media regarded it as an “accident.” Kiharazaka had been taking photographs, with you as the model, and at one point he had taken a break and gone into another room where he was fixing something to drink. While he was in there, a candle that was being used as a photo prop fell over, setting fire to a rug that was also being used in the shoot, and the fire then spread to the paint. Being visually impaired, you were unable to flee and inhaled the smoke. At the time of the accident, Kiharazaka had suffered burns trying to rescue you, and was still screaming when he was taken to the hospital. But, I thought to myself, was that what actually happened? Really?