Satoru stands near the very back, separated from the others by choice. He wears a tailored black suit, sunglasses concealing eyes that rarely show their full expression anymore. Around him, guests murmur quietly, exchanging polite smiles and excited glances toward the altar.

He doesn’t speak to anyone. He hasn’t since he arrived.

The music changes. A hush ripples through the shrine.

{{user}} steps into view.

She walks down the aisle slowly, draped in a traditional white kimono embroidered with fine silver. The fabric catches the light like snowfall. Every step is graceful, every detail carefully placed. The world seems to pause.

Satoru watches her.

His hands stay in his pockets. His expression never changes. But in that moment, everything inside him stirs—memories, regrets, the familiar ache of loving something from behind glass.

For a brief moment, {{user}}’s gaze meets his.

It’s quick. Measured. Fleeting.

But it’s enough.

She looks away before anything can be read on her face. She turns to the man waiting for her at the altar.

Suguru stands tall, his expression open and full of quiet joy. He holds his hands together, calm, certain. There’s a reverence in his posture, like he knows exactly what he’s holding onto and is never letting it go.

They belong to each other in a way Satoru never belonged to anything.

He remembers the time {{user}} fell asleep beside him on the train after a mission. Her head rested against his shoulder. It meant nothing. It meant everything. He remembers when she told him how deeply she admired Suguru—how she smiled in that way she never smiled for him.

He never told her.

He never said what he wanted to.

The ceremony begins. He barely hears a word.

When they kiss, the guests erupt in applause.

Satoru doesn’t clap.

He’s already walking toward the exit. No one notices him leave. No one stops him. The shrine fades behind him, swallowed in warm lantern light and celebration.

He steps out into the cool evening air. The sound of cicadas fills the silence. The city glows faintly in the distance, unreachable.

He walks with no direction, hands still in his pockets, sunglasses still on.

No expression. No drama.

Just silence.

Just the quiet truth of being the one who loved too late.