Chapter 23: A Day Like Forever

Because when you can’t promise someone a lifetime, you give them a day that feels like one.

---

The city looked softer tonight. Like someone turned the volume down on all the noise, all the ugliness.

Maybe it was just me. Maybe I wanted it to look softer because she deserved that.

Yume held my arm as we walked, her steps light but slow — too slow. Every pause felt like a warning, but I pretended not to notice. Pretending is a skill I’ve mastered lately.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

She tilted her head toward me, smiling like she could hear the lie in my voice.

“You say that every time.”

“Because every time it’s true.”

---

We stopped under a canopy of lights strung across a narrow street — little golden stars hung on wires, trembling in the wind.

Beneath them, music spilled from an open bar. Something soft. Something meant for people who still believe in forever.

“Here,” I said.

She frowned. “Kazuki…?”

“Dance with me.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You? Dance?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked,” she said, laughter threading her voice. “I’m horrified.”

“Fair,” I admitted, and offered my hand.

---

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then her fingers slipped into mine — warm, fragile, like a secret I wasn’t supposed to hold.

I pulled her close, one hand on her back, the other holding hers like it was the only real thing in the world.

We moved awkwardly at first. My steps heavy, hers uncertain. But the music didn’t care. The night didn’t care. And for a moment, neither did I.

She rested her head against my chest. “You’re… actually not terrible.”

“High praise,” I muttered.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

She laughed — the real kind, the kind that starts in your stomach and spills out before you can stop it.

God, I’d kill to hear that again tomorrow.

---

The song changed. We didn’t. Just kept moving in a slow circle like we were trying to trap time in the space between us.

“You ever wish you could freeze a moment?” she whispered.

“Every second,” I said before I could stop myself.

She smiled, soft and sad. “If I could see right now, I’d want to remember your face.”

“You don’t need to,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll make sure you don’t forget me.”

I don’t know who that voice belonged to. Strong. Certain. Like a man who believes in his own lies.

---

When the music faded, we stayed there — holding on like letting go would set the whole city on fire.

Finally, she pulled back, her fingers brushing my jaw, tracing the sharp edges like she was memorizing me in Braille.

“You feel tired,” she said softly.

I almost laughed. If only she knew.

---

We walked home under the string lights, her hand in mine, her head on my shoulder.

And for the first time in forever, the world didn’t feel like it was trying to kill me.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

---

When I dropped her off, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making today feel like forever.”

I stood there long after her door closed, staring at the wood like it owed me something.

Then I turned and walked into a night that suddenly felt too heavy to carry.

Because forever is a word people like us aren’t allowed to use.