Goodnight Mari

In such a brief moment, do you have any regrets?

1.

I always hated coming home from school.

No, not because class was over, but because I had to go back home. It felt like walking back into hell. I remembered the time I'd come home from school, carrying a kitten in my bicycle basket, back to the house. My father had viciously beaten the poor kitten. "Go away!" he yelled at the helpless animal in front of him. I wanted to scream, “Run little kitten, run up the mountain and don't ever come back," but I held back. Oh, how I regretted bringing it home, hoping to feed it a little before letting it go again—knowing full well that my father would never let me keep it. I felt a hollow sadness creep into the recesses of my chest. I never liked coming home from school. Now and then, I'd get off my bike and walk with it back to slow down my time back home. It was a brief opportunity to enjoy the gentle afternoon breeze. I don't really like noises; perhaps it's the only thing I like about this village. It's not populated by many people, and noise is something foreign to it. Even so, I don't want to stay here forever. I want to go far away and start a new life where I can be myself without hiding who I really am.

I always hated coming home from school, because I'd be left with my own thoughts on the way home. Knowing I was still trapped here, as a part of a play I never wanted to participate in.

I walked on my bike while kicking the gravel under my feet. From a distance in front of the train tracks, I saw the figure of a girl in the same school uniform as mine, talking to a black cat on the side of the road. What was her name? Ah, yes, her name was Nora. I remembered her; we were classmates, but I rarely saw her interact with other schoolmates. She mostly kept to herself. I thought she was a strange child. I never saw her pay attention to class; she was also always in the last rank in class, even though she often took notes. I don't know if she wrote a diary or what, all I know is that she always carried a black notebook with her. The book was always with her, like a lover who never left her.

My feet stopped, and without realising it, I had been staring at her for a few minutes. My presence finally caught her attention. Nora turned to me. To where I was standing. I could only wave at her, hoping she didn't know what was going on in my head, and she hesitantly waved back. Should I approach her? Ah, that question was unnecessary; in the end, I couldn't avoid this encounter. It would be utterly rude of me to just leave her, and I was taught to maintain my manners even with those I hated. I don't know why people expected that of me, but I also never had any enemies. I'm not someone who likes to hate, so none of it mattered to me.

So, I forced myself to walk toward her, my bike still propped up beside me. Nora stared at me with her dark eyes, her shoulder-length black hair blowing gently in the afternoon breeze. She hadn't tied it up like usual, letting it fall loose over her slightly hunched shoulders.

“I haven't seen you around here before,” I said, starting a conversation as I stood beside her.

Nora nodded slowly, “I usually stop by the bookstore on my way home from school, so that’s probably why we never cross paths,” she replied softly, almost muffled by the wind around us. Her voice was soft, a whisper that clashed with the silence, and the silence itself was louder than her quiet voice.

“Bookstore?” I asked, thinking I misheard her. I remembered the only bookstore in the village. I’d never been there, and I had no intention of going. I’d gotten the book from my aunt in town, who loved to read. She’d taken me in for a few years after my parents’ divorce, making her a very close friend of mine. Unfortunately, I now lived with my father, whom I didn’t particularly like. Every morning was a blur, as I had to listen to him advise me on how to be the perfect lady.

I stared at Nora. It must be fun to be her. She looked like someone who didn't have a burden on her back. Being the last in the class, how embarrassing that would be. If I were her, I wouldn't live long.

Nora opened her mouth slowly and hesitantly. “I like reading, but my parents don’t have money for unnecessary things. So, I go to the bookstore every now and then to read because our village doesn’t have a library. The owner is very kind to me, he lets me sit there all afternoon reading books that have already been opened,” Nora said, explaining her story. She looked up at the mountain in front of us, then opened her mouth once more, “Do you like reading?” she asked, tilting her head slightly—like a cat!

“I read occasionally in my spare time,” I replied, looking into his dark eyes, which were still staring off into the distance. I then lowered my head. “What kind of books do you usually read?”

“I’m a fan of the classics. I also love fairy tales from all over the world; my favourite is Tam Lin. It’s actually a Scottish ballad. It’s about Janet, a girl who saved Tam Lin from the spell of a fairy queen. Janet held Tam Lin’s hand even when he turned into fire, a bear, or even a snake, until he finally became human again. I find that story so romantic, holding on to someone you love even when it hurts until they can both live happily ever after,” Nora continued enthusiastically. Her eyes held a sparkle I’d never seen in anyone else’s before, or perhaps a sparkle that had faded from most people’s eyes. She turned to me now, a small smile on her face. A smile different from the ones I’d seen in class. This one was more honest, more open.

“But the story is like a one-way sacrifice,” I said with my eyes turned to the evening sky.

“Maybe that’s true,” she said, looking down. “But isn’t that how it’s always going to be? That someone will sacrifice more, be hurt more. I’ll hurt someone I love, and someone I love will hurt me in return.”

“But aren’t you overromanticising suffering too much? Is it really necessary to find true love to sacrifice? I don’t think love necessarily comes with sacrifice.”

Nora laughed at my response, seemingly amused. “I would hope so, too, Mari.” Hearing my name called that way made me flinch slightly. But I tried to adjust to the conversation I was having with the girl beside me. I still felt uncomfortable with her, but I was slowly getting used to her somewhat odd presence. Then I heard her say, “I often stare at you from afar, but I never dare to approach you. I don’t know why I never tried to be your friend, maybe because I was afraid you’d think bad things about me.”

“Like what?” I asked, as if I had been caught red-handed by her.

“Like the others,” she replied curtly, a sadness in his voice.

I think I'm starting to feel sorry for her, maybe that's why she's so often alone with her little notebook. Isn't it lonely? Or maybe she just likes it. There's something about the way she stands by the tracks, with the fading dusk behind her, that makes me think she was made for solitude. As if the whole world is too noisy for her, and she chooses to dwell among the barely audible sounds—the wind, the distant train, the pages of a book turning.

“I don’t feel lonely,” she said suddenly, as if responding to what was in my head that hadn’t been said yet.

I turned quickly, a little surprised. "What?"

Nora smiled faintly without looking at me, her eyes still fixed on the rail that stretched toward the mountain, as if there was something beyond that only she could see. “I don’t feel lonely,” she repeated. She sounded more like someone trying to convince herself than me. But maybe it was just my mind making it seem that way.

The train passed shortly after, roaring like an old beast awakening from a long slumber. The wind carried and ruffled our hair, swirled the dust, and erased some of the twilight that remained in the air. I watched Nora stand where she was, unmoving as the train passed just a few meters in front of her. Wasn't she afraid of being swept away? Her presence was so light, like a myth, and perhaps I would find myself talking to myself the longer I stood here.

“I want to be a novelist someday,” she said suddenly. “Before I die, I want to publish a book.” I stared at her, trying to read her face in the lingering orange light. Her words sounded less like a girl’s dream than like the final words of someone who has come to terms with her fate. There was a strange certainty in her voice—not romantic, not hopeful, but certain, like something planned. I wanted to ask her why she spoke as if death were so near, but my voice caught in my throat. I just stared at the book she held, its cover scratched, its edges damp and worn, as if it had swallowed countless secrets never to be spoken.

I remember her now; she was in charge of the school bulletin board. I often saw her pinning new short stories to the bulletin board, hoping someone would read them. Occasionally, I did, reading her tales of the stars and other planets beyond human reach. To me, her stories were like bedtime stories, full of fantasy and otherworldly mystery. They were childish, but that's what made her writing so special.

Suddenly—while I was still deep in thought—I heard her laugh. “Maybe my fate will be the same as Kafka’s, that my writings will be published after I die. But maybe not, I’m just wasting my time writing these stories. Maybe I’ll be forgotten like dust in the cosmos.” his voice was almost muffled by the sound of the passing train, but I could still hear his soft voice. “What about you? What’s your dream?”

“I just want to live a simple life with the people I love, but far from here.”

“A dream as simple as you.”

She spoke as if she'd known me for a long time. But hearing her speak like that made me feel at ease. I began to lower my guard against the girl next to me. Maybe I should give her a chance. Maybe she wasn't as strange as I thought, or as people said.

Something as simple as me.

I've never dreamed that big. I just wanted peace, security, and stability in life. I never dreamed of meeting a prince on a horse, or dreaming of having the stars in the sky. Unlike her, she seems to be a dreamer. Someone who won't last long against the current of life. Someone who will be filled with disappointment. But do they feel alive? Do they feel free?

I didn't answer after that. We just stood there in silence, as the last train disappeared over the curve of the hill, leaving echoes that slowly faded in the air. The sky had turned completely purple, and in the almost dead twilight, the world felt like something was holding its breath. Nora stared at the now-empty tracks, as if she still saw something moving at the end—something that was only for her.

"I like it."

“What?” I asked.

“Your dream,” she smiled.

I didn't know how to respond to that. There was something in her voice—a warmth or a sadness so subtle it was almost indistinguishable. We stood in silence for a while, accompanied only by the rustling of the wind and the sound of crickets emerging from their hiding places. I watched her face from the side; the last rays of dusk clung to her skin like the remnants of an unfinished dream. Then she said, quietly but clearly, “You know, Mari, I often think of the world as a book written by someone exhausted. Some pages feel alive, full of colour, but others seem hastily written—without meaning, without direction. Sometimes I wonder… at which page I'll stop.”

I didn't say anything else. We finally said goodbye, as she returned to her house, and I returned to mine. That day, I met Nora, a solitary girl who liked to chat with cats on the street. That day, I met a dreamer.

Hello Nora,

Nice to meet you.

...

2.

I decided to visit the bookstore that the girl had mentioned after school. I saw Nora sitting in a chair near the cashier, Dazai Osamu's copy of The Schoolgirl clutched in her hands. A book that I thought perfectly reflected her. Yes, indeed, she looked like a character straight out of the Japanese literary novels I've read.

I saw that she was still wearing her school uniform, her hair tied back. Nora looked up, recognising my presence. Her gaze was blank for a moment, as if she were trying to make sure I was real, not just a shadow conjured up from the page she had just read. Then her lips curved slightly, a smile that felt more defensive than welcoming.

“You came too,” she said, her voice low but enough to penetrate the silence of the shop.

I looked around—old wooden shelves towered, filled with the scent of dust and yellowed paper. Afternoon light filtered through the glass windows, casting streaks of light across the floor.

“You said this place was nice,” I replied as I stepped closer, trying to sound casual.

“Welcome to my paradise,” she said with a chuckle. She came over to me and pushed me into the small bookstore. We spent a good time there. Nora is a lively talker, and I thought I could listen to her talk for the rest of my life. She talked about many things—about writers who never finished their lives, about characters hidden behind words, about how each book was a beautiful coffin, a place where a person’s soul was kept from truly disappearing. I just listened, letting her voice flow like a slow but deep river. Now and then, her eyes would sparkle when she found a book she liked, like a child who had just discovered a secret of the world. She would pull me from shelf to shelf, pointing at the worn covers with slightly dusty fingers.

We walked home together after spending most of the afternoon at the bookstore. A drizzle began to fall, and we walked under it. I saw her raise his hand to feel every drop. She also tilted his head back, letting the rain drip into her mouth. She truly was like a child refusing to grow up.

I could only stare at her from the side, my steps slowing to match her light rhythm. There was something gentle about the way she enjoyed the world—as if every little thing, even a raindrop, held an inexplicable meaning. She closed her eyes, letting her damp hair cling to her cheeks. In the dim afternoon light, she looked like a figure born from memory—fragile yet real, alive yet ready to vanish at any moment.

“I used to think it rained because God was crying,” she said, before laughing at her own words.

“I used to think it rained because the angels were watering the forest like someone waters their plants.”

Nora turned to me, still smiling. “That sounds sweeter,” she said softly. “I like that one. God crying sounds too sad. But if angels water the world…” She paused, looking up at the grey sky above us. “That means someone still cares about us, right?”

I didn't answer. Something in her words made my chest feel tight. I didn't know if it was her innocence or if it was the fact that it’s been so long since I stopped believing in such things. It reminded me of my collection of books at home. Many of them were intended for children, but perhaps Nora would enjoy them. So, I opened my mouth and offered, "If you'd like, you can come over to my house. I have some old books from my aunt in town," I told her. Nora turned to me, and she enthusiastically took a few steps toward me, making me take a few steps back.

“Really?” she asked, her eyes sparkling, as if my offer were some kind of invitation to a new, secret world. I nodded slowly, a little nervous at the distance between us now.

The next day, we went to my house together. Father wasn't home, so it was just the two of us. I led Nora to my room, which had walls lined with bookshelves and faded old movie posters. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting a golden hue through the dusty air. Nora stood in the centre of the room, her eyes searching every corner with a natural curiosity, as if reading me like a newly opened book.

“The Little Prince!” she cried suddenly. I turned to the book she was pointing to, tucked among the other books on my desk. The cover was worn, and the corners of the pages curled from being opened so often. Nora picked it up carefully, as if handling something fragile.

"I read it in a bookstore, and I really enjoyed it. There's a sense of disappointment with adulthood that's so palpable in it."

“This book does look like you, Nora.”

“I loved the conversation with the fox in this book, about how something becomes so special when someone dedicates their time to it. What was the exact line? Hmm, ‘The time you waste on your rose is what makes it so precious,’ if I’m not mistaken.” Nora spoke quickly and passionately. “I wish I could be a little prince’s rose,” she continued, her eyes sparkling, staring at the book in her hands.

I watched her face in the afternoon light, as if it knew where to fall to make everything seem softer. She read a few lines with her lips moving slowly, almost silently, as if she were holding something back. In that silence, I saw another side of her—not the chatty girl from the bookstore yesterday, but someone wandering the quiet passages of her own thoughts. I wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but something held me back, like the fear that with one word, the silence would be shattered and vanish. Nora closed her book, glanced at me, and then smiled faintly. “Where have you been all my life?”

I laughed at that. “In the same class as you, all through high school,” I replied lightly.

The two of us sat on my bed, flipping through Nora's black notebook. "This is the first time I've shown this to anyone," she told me. "I use it to jot down ideas that come to me, a few short stories, and random sketches. Look, this is one of them. I wrote a story about a storyteller who has lost his voice, lost his audience. Wondering, 'Who am I without my voice?' But ultimately, the storyteller is still a storyteller even after losing his voice; now he tells his story with paintings, with pictures."

I read through the few pages of notes, captivated by the messy but vibrant ink strokes. Her handwriting was barely legible to me, but she patiently read each word aloud. Nora lowered her head slightly, her voice trembling slightly as she read her own writing—as if each sentence were a secret she had just decided to share.

“I honestly hate it,” she said suddenly.

"What?"

“This story,” she answered curtly. I no longer heard her cheerful voice. “I should have stopped writing and let my parents decide my future. I never paid attention to the teachers, I never studied the school material, and I just wrote stories that no one would read. I was just wasting my time.” Her tone changed, as if I were seeing a new person inside Nora. The person sitting beside me was no longer the dreamer I had grown to love, but simply someone who doubted herself.

I stared at her, trying to read the expression on her face, which was now filled with something I couldn't quite describe—a mixture of anger, disappointment, and exhaustion. Her hand gripped the notebook tightly, as if she wanted to crush it. “They say I'm weird,” she continued, her voice low but sharp like a thin blade scraping through the air. “My father says I live in a world that isn't real. My mother says I'm too sensitive, too easily swayed. Sometimes I think, maybe they're right. Maybe I'm just not cut out for this world. I write because I don't know how to talk to them, but even my writing feels useless now.” She chuckled, but her voice was bitter. I saw her eyes tremble, like someone fighting back tears with all the strength they had left.

"I always wait for your short story in the school bulletin board, Nora," I said as I lay down on the bed and turned towards her.

“Really?” she asked briefly.

"Honestly, I thought your story was childish, that you wrote something like someone who wasn't yet an adult. But I guess there's nothing wrong with that. I, myself, want to grow up quickly, so I can escape from here."

I saw Nora lying down beside me. She tilted her body so I could see her face clearly. Then, in a low voice, she asked.

“Why are you so eager to leave?”

"This village is beautiful, but it's not for me. Sometimes the place we live doesn't feel like home. I want to find my home somewhere else," I answered honestly.

“When do you plan to leave?”

“As soon as possible, after completing high school.”

“It just makes me jealous,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I want to get out of here, too,” she continued.

I didn't say anything else. We just sat there, silent, letting time pass slowly like the old clock ticking in the next room. The sound of crickets began to ring outside the window, marking the afternoon that was almost night. In that silence, I felt the weight of her head on my shoulder—light but also heavy with something I couldn't quite put my finger on: maybe longing, maybe fear, or maybe both. I wanted to ask her so many things—what she was truly afraid of, what she sought outside of this village, or what had kept her going this far—but I knew most of those questions didn't need answers. Some things were enough to feel, not to explain.

The last rays of sunlight had vanished, replaced by a soft, comforting darkness. Nora was still beside me, clutching her notebook as if it were the only thing keeping her together. “You know,” she said softly, almost whispering, “I often think that maybe we don’t have to go far to find home. Maybe home isn’t a place, but a person.” Her words hung in the air, bouncing off the walls of my room, which suddenly felt smaller than usual. I stared at her, but she didn’t look back. Her gaze was blank, distant, as if she were looking at something outside the window—something I couldn’t see.

When she finally said goodbye that night, I walked her to the front of the house. A chill greeted us, and the sky was dotted with stars too numerous to count. Nora stared up at the sky for a moment, then turned to me with a faint, almost painful smile. “Don’t forget me, if one day I’m really gone,” she said. I wanted to say that I would never forget her, but my voice wouldn’t come out. So I just nodded, and she walked away, her steps slow, through the thin mist of the night.

Will I ever forget it?

...

3.

The school festival was lively. Competition after competition was held, and many small stalls were open. In some places, student-made films were shown in various classrooms, and there was even an art exhibition in the school hall. Despite this, I didn't see Nora at all, and no one asked where she had gone. Her presence around the school was like a ghost, completely transparent and invisible.

“Boo!” a familiar voice exclaimed, patting my shoulder from behind. I flinched and turned to face the figure who had startled me. There stood Nora in her school uniform, her black hair neatly tied back, a star-shaped clip in her bangs that usually covered her face. “Why don’t you enjoy this festival with your friends?” she asked with a smile.

“I was looking everywhere for you. I thought you wouldn’t come,” I replied, covering up the fact that my friends had left me alone. Even though we often hung out together, we were never really close, and I was just an optional friend.

"One of the films being shown is based on a story I wrote, so I couldn't possibly not going. I wanted to see the final product."

“Which movie?” I asked finally, trying to hide the nervousness in my voice.

"The one in class 2-B," she replied lightly, then walked ahead of me. Her steps were calm and rhythmic, as if she knew exactly where she was going. I followed her through the halls lined with posters, the smell of paint from the painting booths, and the echo of laughter.

“The film was honestly inspired by an Oscar Wilde fairy tale about a student searching for a red rose to ask a girl to dance, because she asked him to. A little nightingale then helps him by piercing its heart through the thorn of a white rose to turn the white into a red rose. In the end, the girl rejects him, preferring the expensive jewellery gift from another man. The student then throws the flower into the street and swears never to believe in love again.” I stared at her for a long moment, waiting for her smile to turn into a chuckle or a light sarcasm as usual—but it didn’t. Nora spoke quietly, her voice soft but with the feeling of reciting something she had long memorised.

We arrived in front of Class 2-B. From behind the half-open door, the sound of the projector and the whispers of the audience could be heard. The light from the screen flickered on the wall, creating shadows that moved like ripples in water. We sat in the back row. The movie had already started.

I turned to her, but she was still staring at the screen. The dim light from the projector shone on her face, making him seem distant, almost unreal.

The final scene shows a red rose on the ground, its petals scattered by the wind. The film ends without any closing music—just silence and the sound of the projector turning off.

“How is it?” she asked finally.

“It’s sad,” I answered honestly. “But it’s also beautiful.”

She smiled faintly. “Let’s go look at the paintings in the hall,” she said, taking my hand and leading me out of the classroom. We walked down the hallway, still crowded with people. The air outside felt warmer than inside, filled with the scent of paint, paper, and the plastic flowers displayed in every corner. In the hall, an art exhibition was underway—the walls were covered with student paintings, some soft in colour like unfinished dreams, while others looked like inner screams frozen on canvas.

Nora slowly let go of my hand and walked over to one of the large paintings, depicting a rose garden at midnight. The red flowers in the painting seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight, but upon closer inspection, they weren't completely red—there was a blackish tinge to each petal, like dried blood.

“Look at this,” she said quietly. “This painting was done by a girl from class 3-C. I asked for it.”

“You like red roses so much, don’t you?”

Nora smiled slightly, but didn't answer immediately. Her gaze lingered on the painting for a long moment, as if she were looking at something much deeper than just the strokes of paint on the canvas.

“People say I’m like a red rose, from a distance, I’m a thing of beauty. But if you get too close, you might be wounded by my thorns, and your blood will drip onto my petals, colouring my crown red,” she said. Nora did it again; she spoke like a character in a story. I didn’t know how lonely she was in her days; the way she spoke sounded like something out of a fairy tale.

I stared at her for a long moment, trying to grasp the meaning of her words. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt that what she was saying wasn't just a metaphor—it was a confession. "Then," I said slowly, "do you want someone to stay close, even if they know they'll get hurt?" She didn't answer. Nora stared at the painting again, tracing the colour strokes with a blank stare.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “Maybe I just want to know if anyone is foolish enough to stay even though they know they’ll bleed.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Like the bird that stabs its heart into the thorns of a rose for the sake of another’s love. I want to know if anyone is willing to sacrifice for me. But to want sacrifice, you have to be willing to sacrifice yourself.”

“Are you afraid to make sacrifices?”

“No, I'm more afraid of rejection. What about you?”

“I'm honestly afraid to make sacrifices.”

Nora stared at me for a long moment, as if considering my answer, as if reading something deeper than that simple sentence. “Fear of sacrifice means fear of loss,” she said quietly. “But perhaps loss itself is the most honest form of sacrifice.” I didn’t answer immediately. There was something in her tone—calm, yet bitter—that made me feel like she was speaking of something that had actually happened. About someone leaving, or something lost and never returning.

“I’m afraid if I give too much, I won’t have anything left for myself,” I finally answered, almost as a confession. Nora smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the dimming light of the hall lights.

“Then you are wiser than I,” she said. “I give even when I know no one will return anything for me.”

A faint sound emanated from the loudspeakers in the hall—an announcement that the exhibition would close in half an hour. But Nora and I remained standing in front of the painting, as if time had stopped between us. Outside, the festival was still in full swing: laughter, music, footsteps scattered through the halls. But here, only silence hung in the air, like a long pause between two breaths.

Do I really want to be around her?

...

4.

Nora is a liar.

She’s a terrible person who preyed on others' weaknesses. How foolish I was to let myself appear so vulnerable around her. I nearly fell into her trap. I just stood there that afternoon, staring at the note she had left on her desk. I stared at it—its neat little letters, its words full of feeling, as if each line had been written to ensnare someone. My breath was heavy; my heart was beating faster than usual. I wanted to tear the paper, burn it, erase any trace of her from my life. But my hands were stiff, as if something were restraining every movement. Every word written there whispered a truth I couldn't quite admit: I still cared for her, even though I knew she was a liar.

Her words were just part of her lies.

“Mari?” asked a voice that appeared at the entrance of the classroom.

“Ah, yes?” I replied, stuffing the piece of paper into my pocket and turning to face her. I forced a smile onto my lips, but I couldn’t hold it back any longer. Nora stood in the doorway, her hair slightly dishevelled by the breeze coming in through the classroom window. Her eyes stared at me, dark and unreadable, as if trying to read my thoughts.

“What are you doing? Let’s go home,” she said, tucking her bangs behind her ear, a gesture she often did—and I thought I knew you. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t believe it, what she was doing to me. To her, I was just a joke, wasn’t I? Something to laugh about.

“You can go home, I have something to do,” I replied to him.

"Why all of a sudden?"

“I… I just remembered something I have to do before I go home,” I stammered, trying to cover up my own doubts. My voice sounded fragile even to my own ears. I looked down at the tips of my shoes, avoiding her piercing gaze. There was something in her eyes—not angry, not demanding—just curious, but it was enough to make my chest tighten.

“Then see you tomorrow,” she said, waving her hand and walking away, leaving me in the empty classroom. As I looked down, I realised that this feeling wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t shake it, even if I wanted to. There was a lingering pain, a mix of anger, disappointment, and… something softer, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I knew I had to leave, to separate myself from all its allure, even if it meant enduring emptiness all the way home.

The next day, I avoided her,

And the next day,

And the days after.

I fell back into my old routine. Hanging out with my old friends, talking to them in the school cafeteria, and playing after school. Slowly but surely, I began to forget Nora. I stopped reading her works in the bulletin board posts, leaving the habit behind and focusing on my future. I began to learn to hate her, and in that hatred, I was able to save myself.

That afternoon, I walked alone, leading my bicycle. Staring at the orange sky above me, while drizzle fell, wetting my uniform. I stopped on a small bridge, staring at the rushing water from the afternoon rain. The water reflected the orange light of the sky, creating a warm illusion that contrasted with the bone-chilling cold air. The hands gripping the handlebars of my bicycle began to tremble, not because of the rain, but because of the mixed feelings that suddenly arose—longing, anxiety, anger, and sympathy. I realised that, as much as I tried to hate her, there was a part of me that still wanted her, still wanted to understand what drove Nora to be like that.

Suddenly, from behind the damp trees, I heard a familiar voice—one I had long insisted I not remember. “Mari…” Her voice was soft, full of hesitation, and somehow it made my chest tighten. I turned slowly, and there she stood, Nora, soaked, her hair plastered to her face, but her eyes—her eyes still the same, staring at me with an intensity that didn’t change even as the rain dripped down on them. There was something different, I could feel it, something fragile but real, something that made me want to reach out and hug her, and at the same time restrain myself from being drawn back into the vortex of her lies.

“Why are you avoiding me?” she asked me.

“You lied to me, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. Why did you hide so much from me? If you didn’t like what I did, you should have told me!” I screamed. Unable to hold back the emotions boiling in my chest any longer. Rain dripped down my cheeks, mixing with tears I hadn’t realised were coming. My voice was hoarse, but every word that came out was a reflection of the hurt I’d been holding in. Nora remained silent, staring at me with teary eyes, as if tormented by the words I’d shot at her. There was a long pause, only the sound of the rain and the river flowing under the bridge filling the silence.

“I… I know I’ve done a lot of things wrong, Mari,” she said finally, her voice barely audible, like she was whispering to himself more than speaking to me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was afraid… afraid that you would reject me if you knew everything about me. I made mistakes by hiding things, by lying, but it wasn’t because I wanted to hurt you. I…” Her voice trailed off, lost in the rain. I looked into her eyes, and for the first time, I felt the truth linger behind her mask—the mask that had been making me wary and angry.

“You're late,” I said bitterly.

“Don't you care about me?”

“Sorry, I care more about myself.”

Nora lowered her head. Rain dripped from the tip of her chin, flowing slowly down her pale neck. For a moment, she looked like someone who had lost all the courage she once boasted—all the charm that had once held me captive to her words had now slipped away, leaving behind only exhaustion and regret. “I know,” she said softly, “and I shouldn’t have expected anything from you anymore.” She laughed a little, a bitter laugh, as if laughing at herself. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I lied to you because I was afraid of losing you, but in the end, it was the lie that made me lose you.”

Her words pierced something deep, something I'd long stifled with anger and hatred. Under the bridge, the rain continued to fall, and I realised how cold the air between us was. I saw her trembling hands, as if she wanted to reach out, but she held them back. I could feel her struggling not to cry, and for some reason, I hated myself for even caring.

“I care about you, Mari.”

“You only care about the me you built in your head.”

Nora fell silent. Her gaze faded, like someone suddenly disoriented in a thick fog. The sound of the rain was the only thing left between us—rhythmic, monotonous, as if accompanying something that was ending without a word. I knew that if I stayed here any longer, I would begin to waver. The rain, the memories, and the sound—all conspired to pull me back.

“I don’t know who I am without you,” she finally said, her voice hoarse, almost drowned out by the pounding rain. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just love your shadow… the one I created so I wouldn’t feel alone.”

I stared at her. Part of me wanted to reach out, reassure her, tell her everything would be okay. But I knew it would be another lie—one that would come from me.

“Then,” I said slowly, “you must learn to love that loneliness. Because I won't come back just to appease you.”

She stared at me for a long time, “You are cruel, really cruel!”

“Then what about you? What about all the lies you told me?”

Nora closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to hold back something that was about to burst from within her. “I didn’t mean to make you suffer!” she cried, her voice trembling over the sound of the increasingly heavy rain. “I lied because I wanted you to see me in a better light, not as someone broken, not as someone unworthy of your love.” Her eyes met mine with a mixture of despair and longing. “I was afraid that if I showed you who I really was, you would leave even sooner than this. And I was right—you left too.”

“I didn’t leave because you were broken, Nora!” I snapped, taking a step forward, slamming the stiff, cold air between us. “I left because you chose to deceive me. Because every word you said was a lie disguised in beauty. I can’t love someone who doesn’t know how to be honest!” My voice cracked, and for a moment I almost didn’t recognise myself—a person filled with rage, but beneath it, a wound that had never truly healed.

“And you think I’m not hurt?” she retorted quickly, her voice rising, her eyes glistening with tears. “You think it’s easy for me to see you walk away every day, looking at me like I’m poison? I’m struggling, Mari! I’m trying to fix everything, but you won’t give me a single chance!” She stepped forward, now only a few steps away from me. The rain between us was like a thin curtain covering her now desperate face. “I wrote to you every night, I tried to beg you to understand. But you closed your ears, refusing everything.”

“I reject the lie, not you!” I glared at her, my voice trembling, “You made yourself the everything I see, everything I hear from you—it’s all fake. How can I trust someone who isn’t even honest with herself?”

Nora laughed bitterly. “Maybe I deserve to be hated. But don’t pretend like you’re better than me. You hide behind your own morals, behind the excuse that you’re protecting yourself. But you’re just as cowardly as I am, Mari!” She leaned in, her index finger almost touching my chest. “You never really wanted to love me—you just wanted to find a reason to justify your pain!”

I fell silent, not because I didn't have an answer, but because her words struck a deep chord. "Stop twisting everything!" I finally exclaimed, pushing her shoulders away. "You don't know anything about me!"

“Oh, I know too much,” she replied quickly, her face now so close that I could see the tears mingling with the rain on her cheeks. “I know that you hate me not just for my lies, but because I made you feel things you couldn’t control. You’re afraid of me, Mari. Afraid that I touched a part of you that even you yourself have hidden.”

I bit my lip, trying to keep myself from screaming. “You’re so wrong,” I whispered, “I’m scared not because I love you, but because every time I look at you, I see the weakest part of myself—the part that still wants to trust even though it knows it will hurt.”

Nora closed her eyes, her voice trailing off. “And I… just want you to know that all those lies were born out of a desire to be loved, not out of malice. I wanted someone to look at me and not run away. But maybe I was just made to make people leave.” She took a deep breath, looked down, and then looked at me with resigned eyes. “You win, Mari. You always win.”

I wanted to say that no one was winning here, but the words caught in my throat. The rain slowly eased, leaving behind a biting chill. I said nothing more, simply walking past her still, frozen body under the overcast sky.

Hope I don't have to see her again.

...

5.

Day after day passed without her, and I began to miss her in some silent nights. But I couldn't shake the hatred that had blossomed in my chest. I sat in my room with my friends, talking about our plans after high school. I remember telling Nora that I wanted to go far away from here and never come back. Somewhere else, where I could be myself, and it made my mind ache.

As my friends called out the names of universities, I silently watched, sitting in my warm bed as the rain fell again outside. I had dreams, too. But why did it feel so hard to dream now? I just wanted a sense of security, where I could rest without ever feeling threatened.

“How about you, Mari?”

“What?” I asked, jolted out of my reverie.

"What are you going to do after you graduate?"

“I don't know yet, I just want to get far away from here.”

My friends looked at each other, then laughed. “You should have thought about it before it was too late,” one of them said. Their laughter was light, almost careless — the kind that made everything sound smaller than it was. I forced a faint smile, pretending I didn’t mind, even though their words stung in ways they couldn’t understand. Maybe to them it was just a joke, something to fill the silence between classes. But to me, it was another reminder of all the chances I had watched quietly slip away, one by one, without ever knowing how to reach out and hold them.

Nora wouldn’t laugh at me like that. She had a way of listening that made the world seem quieter, as if every noise dimmed just to let her hear me better. When I spoke, she didn’t interrupt or fill the spaces with meaningless comfort. She’d only nod, eyes soft but searching, waiting until I found the words I was too afraid to say. With her, even my silence felt understood. Maybe that was what I missed the most — not her voice, not even her presence, but the way she made me feel seen without needing to explain myself.

I stared out the window, watching the rain slowly drip down, creating blurry streaks across the glass. Each drop seemed to strike something deep inside me, bringing back memories of her, even though I’d tried to drown them away. The world outside was grey, but alive—the kind of rain that whispered against rooftops and carried the scent of wet earth. It reminded me of the last time we walked home together under a broken umbrella, her laughter rising above the sound of the storm. I thought time would wash those images away, but sometimes, memories cling harder when you try to forget them.

“I just want to go,” I muttered softly, barely audible to anyone. The words slipped out like a confession, fragile and unsteady. I didn’t even know where “go” meant—home, away, somewhere else entirely. Maybe I just wanted to escape the weight of pretending everything was fine. My voice was swallowed by the chatter around me, by the scraping of chairs and the hum of distant conversation. No one noticed. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it wasn’t.

One of my friends patted my shoulder with a smile, “You’re always like that, Mari. Daydreaming too much.” Their touch was light but distant, like a gesture made out of habit rather than care. I smiled back because that was what they expected—a small, polite gesture to keep the rhythm of friendship alive. But my mind had already drifted elsewhere, chasing shadows of a past I couldn’t return to. Daydreaming, they called it. Maybe they were right. Maybe that’s all I had left—fragments of things that once felt real, now floating somewhere between memory and regret.

They joked again, talking about things that somehow felt far away from me—about love, college, the future, and the world that seemed so bright to them. But to me, it all seemed like a shadow in the mist, vague and unreachable.

I stared at my phone screen—Nora's name was still there, among the old messages I'd never opened again. My fingers hesitated, wanting to tap her name, wanting to see if she missed me too. But fear held me back. Not because I was afraid of her, but because I was afraid of myself—afraid of all the things that could come back if I dared to open that wound again.

Outside, the rain was getting heavier.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt truly alone.

After my friends left, the room fell silent. The only sound left was the rain, bouncing off the roof and windows, like thousands of fingers gently tapping on the walls of my mind. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the door that had just closed, as if hoping someone was still standing behind it. But of course, there was no one.

I exhaled slowly. The room felt too big without their laughter and voices. Even the warmth of the table lamp seemed cold tonight. I hugged my knees, trying to suppress the feeling that was starting to rise in my chest—a mixture of longing and regret that I had suppressed for too long.

My eyes returned to the phone on the table. The name was still there. Nora. I hated how her name still made my chest tighten. I hated that every time I tried to forget her, her face was the one that popped into my head the most. I opened one old message—just one. The last one from her that I never replied to.

“I will always miss you, Mari.”

The words were simple, but they felt like a wound that hadn't healed yet. They made the hatred grow deeper. I put the phone down on the table, perhaps too hard, as the sound of the impact echoed in the silent room. Then I looked down at the floor, staring at my own shadow reflected faintly on the wet tiles in the lamplight. A shadow that looked like someone who had lost their way.

“Why did you have to write that, Nora…” I whispered, barely audible. “Why didn’t you just let me hate you?”

I closed my eyes, but what appeared was the image of her smile—a smile that had once been comforting, but now felt like mockery. I remembered her voice, the way she spoke, the way she looked at me as if I meant something.

That night, I didn't sleep.

I just waited for the rain to stop—and hoped, somehow, that this feeling would subside with it.

...

6.

Graduation day arrived.

I sat in class with my friends after we received our report cards, hugging and saying goodbye to each other. I couldn't see Nora anywhere. It was as if the earth had swallowed her. I followed the flow of happiness that poured out around me. Everyone was busy taking pictures together, congratulating each other, and even exchanging goodbye letters. Some were crying with sadness, others were laughing with joy. But, amidst it all, I felt empty.

Where will I go after this?

The question echoed in my head, drowning out the clamour that filled the classroom. I looked at the smiling faces around me—they all seemed to know where they were going. Some had already been accepted to their dream universities, others had career plans, and most had someone waiting for them out there. Meanwhile, I sat in a chair that felt increasingly cold, holding a report card that no longer meant anything. This should have been a beautiful day, a day to celebrate. But without Nora, everything felt flat. As if the happiness of this day wasn't mine to touch.

Then, wanting to feel something, I asked. “Did any of you see Nora?” I asked. Several heads turned towards me. The laughter that had filled the room slowly died down, replaced by a strange silence. One of my friends frowned. “Nora?” he repeated, as if to make sure I hadn’t said the name wrong.

“Didn't you hear, Mari?”

My breath hitched.

“What? What didn’t I hear?”

They looked at each other.

“Her mother tried to kill her a few days ago; both of them were injured.”

The atmosphere in the classroom suddenly changed. All the laughter, all the lighthearted conversation that had filled the air, vanished in an instant. The world seemed to stop spinning. I stared at my friend who had just spoken, trying to decipher the meaning of her words. But his voice sounded distant, as if coming from somewhere else. "What do you mean... kill her?" I asked softly, barely audible. My friend lowered her head, as if regretting her words.

“I heard from the guidance counsellor,” he said, his voice trembling, as if he were holding something heavy in his throat. “They said… her mother was having problems. I don’t know, but they said there was a big fight at home, and after that—” he paused, swallowing hard, as if afraid of the next sentence, “—Nora was rushed to the hospital.”

The words fell softly, but they felt like a large stone dropped into the still pool of my chest. I was frozen in my seat, my body stiff, while the air around me suddenly thickened. The ticking of the classroom clock was so loud in my ears, each tick seemed to slice through the time that refused to stop. My heart was pounding so fast, but my body couldn't move, as if ropes were holding me in place. The words—"rushed to the hospital"—continued to replay in my head, echoing like a relentless echo, hitting my consciousness over and over until it hurt.

I stared at the desk in front of me, my fingers gripping my pen so tightly that the tip broke. There were small whispers around me, faint whispers trying to penetrate the silence of the classroom, and they were all about Nora. About the girl who had stood in the rain with me a few weeks ago, about the look in her eyes that was full of lies and yet also a strange honesty. “Poor her…” one of my classmates said in a pitying tone that sounded more like gossip laced with sympathy.

Another quickly chimed in, “I saw her once, that time, hit, in front of the school gate. I thought it was just a joke, but it turns out…” Her voice trailed off, replaced by a horrified sigh that sounded half disbelief, half satisfaction at having a story to tell. I stared at the blank chalkboard at the front of the classroom, and for some reason, the letters I had written there long ago—our names in the corner—flew through my mind.

“Maybe her mother was frustrated,” another voice came, this time flat, like someone trying to explain tragedy with simple logic, as if violence could be broken down like a math problem. “She also barely passed a grade a few times, right? Who knows, maybe her mother was angry about that.” A small laugh followed between them, lighthearted, as if they weren’t talking about someone’s life slowly crumbling. I wanted to cover my ears, wanted to scream for them to shut up, but my voice was swallowed in my throat. Something colder than that afternoon rain was flowing in my chest—guilt, perhaps, or something deeper than that: fear that I had once decided to hate him without truly knowing what he was hiding.

Each of their words was like a thin layer of glass shielding me from the outside world. I could hear it all, but I couldn't reach it. In my mind, I saw Nora sitting in a white, silent hospital room, her hair a mess, her eyes blankly staring at the ceiling, offering no answers. I imagined her hands shaking in the rain, her voice breaking as she said she didn't know who she was without me—and now, I wondered if that was just another lie, or the last truth she'd ever shown.

“She’s a strange girl,” someone said behind me, their voice quiet but clear enough to penetrate my noisy thoughts. “Sometimes I think she lives in a different world than we do.” I lifted my head and stared out the window. The sky outside was grey, just like the last day I saw her.

I listened without really listening. Their voices were faint echoes that hung in the air, like hollow whispers swirling meaninglessly. They spoke of  Nora as if she were a character on the evening news—someone far enough away to be talked about, but not close enough to be felt. Each sentence cut deeper, not because of its truth, but because of its indifference.

I ran out of the class, running and running. I grabbed my bike and pedalled with all my might towards the hospital. I pedalled and pedalled and pedalled until my legs ached. I wanted to scream, but my voice was stuck in my throat, like something was pressing down on my chest from the inside. The afternoon wind blew against my face as I continued to pedal through the deserted streets. The sun was already slanting westward, leaving behind an orange sky broken by streaks of clouds. I knew I wasn't running towards anything.

I was running away—from fear, from regret, from the fact that I never really knew her completely.

So I pedal,

And pedal,

And pedal.

...

7.

I stood before a grave. The dirt was fresh, the mound damp, and the white headstone reflected the pale afternoon sun. The air around here felt heavy, as if holding its breath along with me. The name was clearly written on the stone, carved in letters too small to contain its full presence. I read the name over and over, as if hoping each repetition would recall the warmth of her voice, or just the image of her face in the wind that swept through the grass. But all I found was silence—a silence too full, pressing gently but surely against my chest. The flowers I had brought with me began to wilt, their petals bending like my heart losing its shape. Beneath the slowly changing sky, I realised how fleeting everything was—that someone once so vivid was now just a name on a stone, and I was just a belated spectator saying goodbye.

I knelt slowly in front of the gravestone, letting my fingers touch the still-damp earth, as if wanting to feel the remaining warmth of her body now buried beneath it. But all I felt was a cold that seeped into my skin, penetrated my flesh, and then settled in my bones—a cold that no amount of time or prayer could banish. The wind blew gently, rustling the edges of the black cloth covering my knees, carrying the scent of earth and half-wilted flowers. I remembered how she used to hate cut flowers—she said flowers picked for death were the cruellest irony. Now, that irony accompanied her every day, in the form of bouquets slowly rotting under the sun.

I silently clutched the black book I'd found in her room. The cover was worn, the edges of the pages yellowed, and some parts still had smudges of melted ink, like tears that hadn't been wiped away. I slowly opened the first page, and the scent of old paper mixed with dust assaulted me. Her distinctive handwriting danced across the page—the letters slanted and firm, as if each word carried a pulse.

“You said you would publish your writing before you left, you said it as if you were going to tell me when you would say goodbye,” I said, staring at the gravestone in front of me, the gravestone still, unmoving. Of course, what was I expecting? Maybe a voice, maybe a laugh. But all I got was silence. Silence that felt like the universe’s most honest answer, that some promises are meant to never be kept—not because they are lies, but because time doesn’t give you the chance. The afternoon breeze touched my face, cool and gentle, as if trying to replace the touch of your hand that used to pat my shoulder whenever I lost my way. I closed my eyes, imagining you standing beside me, discussing strange ideas about life and death that I could only laugh at. Now your words have become prophecy, and I was a witness who understood their meaning too late.

“Nora, I have absolutely no regrets about being angry with you, about hating you. I owe you absolutely nothing. But if I were given one last chance to talk to you, I would. About your writing, about your books, about the fairy tales you once read. You know, I still have every one of your scribbles, even the ones you never finished. I read them over and over, searching for something in them, whether it was a clue, or a reason, or perhaps a piece of you that hadn’t been lost. Sometimes I think your writing wasn’t just fiction, but a kind of message you hid between the words, for me to find when it was too late.” I chuckled bitterly. “You’re truly cruel, Nora. Even in death, you still have a knack for keeping me guessing.”

I always hated coming home from school.

But because of you, I started to like it. In that brief encounter, what we had was real, and you were truly there. Every step toward the school gate that had once been a chore was now something I looked forward to—because that's where I knew I'd see you, standing with that little smile that always made the world feel a little easier. I still remember the way the afternoon sun caught your hair, the way your shadow lengthened on the same path every day, and the way your voice—light but sincere—slipped into my mind, lingering longer than it should have.

I looked down, letting the memories flow slowly, like a small river carrying fragments of the past. I could still see her in my mind—her footsteps on the dusty road, the way her hair danced in the wind, and the look in her eyes that seemed to hold a world no one could understand. It all felt so real, even now, amidst the cold earth and the silence of the stone. I wanted to pretend that this was all just a pause, that soon I would see her again at the end of the tracks with her black notebook, smiling like she used to, asking me to read a page she had just finished. But time knows no pauses, and reality waits for no one to be ready.

I looked up at the sky. The clouds moved slowly, as if they, too, were reluctant to leave this place. There was something strange about the way the world continued to move on, even after someone was gone. The birds still flew, the children still laughed in the distance, and the sun still shone softly on this white tombstone—as if unaware that beneath it was someone who had once made me want to live longer. I thought, maybe that's how the universe is: cruel because it's neutral. Indifferent to grief, but also never truly leaving us. Just standing still, watching, like a tombstone that reflects light without understanding the meaning of the name engraved on it.

A piece of paper tucked into your black book fell to the ground.

I picked it up slowly. The paper was damp, the edges torn, and your writing almost faded. In the corner, there was a familiar date—the day of our argument.

A note, a letter for graduation day.

No.

That was a good night greeting from you.

Your handwriting trembled, as if written hastily between breathless and unshed tears. Ink stains were spreading, like rain falling too quickly before you could close the window. I traced each letter with my fingertip, as if I could feel your heartbeat beneath the paper.

The afternoon sky has now turned to night. The evening breeze begins to fall slowly, carrying the scent of earth and wilted flowers. I stare at the paper in my hand—your writing is shaky, messy as usual. Amidst the blurry ink stains, I read the last salvageable lines."I hope you're happy on your graduation day. I hope the world will be kinder to you than it ever was to me. If one day you look up at the night sky, just think of me still there, writing something I never got to finish."

I swallowed a suddenly heavy breath. It felt like something was stuck in my chest, something I couldn't describe except a longing too old to express. I looked up—the night sky stretched out, filled with stars that seemed too serene to comprehend grief. I imagined you standing on the other side, gazing at the same sky, writing on the last blank page you hadn't yet closed.

One last sentence for me from your dancing pen.

A sweet ending from the dreamer.

A farewell that you gave.

"Goodnight, Mari."