(male vers)
Shibuya’s streets were alive with their usual chaotic energy, neon signs flashing against the darkening sky as people rushed about their lives, unconcerned with the fleeting moments slipping between them. The weight of your impending departure pressed heavily on your chest, yet the city carried on, indifferent to your farewell.
You spent the day revisiting nostalgic places, your friends, thinking about what you'd leave. Just as you turned a corner near Central Street, something—or rather, someone—stopped you cold.
A fleeting glimpse. A figure moving just past the edge of your vision.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. Just another stranger in the crowd, another silhouette swallowed by the city’s rhythm. But the cut of his coat, the unmistakable way he carried himself—even in the dim light, even with his back turned—set your pulse racing.
He died. That was what you had come to accept, what you had spent months forcing yourself to believe. You had mourned him, grieved the way his presence had been torn from your life, cursed the universe for taking him in exchange for normalcy.
And yet, there he was.
The world around you blurred as you stepped forward instinctively, pushing past waves of indifferent pedestrians, desperate to close the distance before he vanished again. You barely noticed how rigid he became the moment he realized he had been seen.
He didn’t turn around.
Didn’t acknowledge you.
Didn’t stop.
If anything, he walked faster, like a shadow slipping between moments, moving as if he could erase himself from existence before you could reach him.
Your heart pounded. The cold air stung your lungs as you forced your way through the crowd, reaching— grasping—only for him to disappear down a smaller alleyway, a dead end. He stood there, facing away, shoulders tense, gloved hands clenched at his sides. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, only the distant hum of the city filling the silence.
He never intended to be recognized again. Especially not by you.