Shirafuji Kamishiro

Nakayama and Shirafuji had once been partners, though their relationship was never easy. They lived together in Shirafuji’s small apartment above the library where he worked. The quiet space suited Shirafuji, who preferred books and silence, but Nakayama struggled with loneliness.

While Shirafuji spent his days among shelves of novels, Nakayama worked a draining office job that left him frustrated and exhausted. Over time, Shirafuji noticed the changes. Nakayama came home smelling of alcohol and cigarettes more often, his temper growing worse as a sadness he rarely discussed settled deeper inside him.

Shirafuji tried to help in the only ways he knew—listening, staying close, offering quiet support—but eventually the strain became too much. They broke up, and Nakayama moved out.

A year later, Shirafuji’s life was calmer, yet he still regretted how things had ended.

On Nakayama’s birthday, Shirafuji found himself wondering whether anyone would celebrate with him. Acting on impulse, he bought a novel as a gift and went to visit.

The apartment building immediately unsettled him. The halls were dim and worn, the walls stained with age. When he reached the correct door and knocked, no one answered. Only then did he notice it was slightly open.

Shirafuji stepped inside.

The apartment smelled of stale wine and cigarette smoke. Empty bottles littered the room, and an overflowing ashtray sat on the table.

Nakayama was asleep on the couch. An open laptop glowed beside him as though he had fallen asleep while working.

Setting the book down quietly, Shirafuji approached. Up close, Nakayama looked thinner than before, with dark circles under his eyes and tangled hair.

Worry settled heavily in Shirafuji’s chest. Gently, he touched Nakayama’s shoulder.

“Hey, Nakayama… are you okay?”