The Salaryman’s Secret

The familiar chime rang, and in walked exhaustion given human form.

Masaru Ishikawa—age unknown—shuffled in like gravity had him on a leash. His suit sagged with wrinkles, his tie drooped like it was clinging to life support, and his hair clung to his forehead in tired strands. Even his briefcase squeaked in protest.

If exhaustion ever needed a mascot, Ishikawa-san could apply without competition. As always, he went straight for his sacred trinity: one can of cheap beer, one pack of fried chicken, and—oddly enough—a fresh stack of notebook paper.

I rang him up, trying not to stare. “Long day?” I asked.

He gave a dry, hollow chuckle. “Long decade. My retirement plan is outliving my boss.”

I bit back a laugh. Yep. Definitely exhaustion’s poster boy.

After he left, I spotted something folded on the counter.

Notebook paper. A few sheets, slightly crumpled.

Miyu leaned over, eyebrow arched. “Don’t tell me you’re starting a lost-and-found collection.”

“Something he forgot,” I said, unfolding the papers.

Neat handwriting. Clean margins. Dialogue. Descriptions.

“…It’s a romance story,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

Miyu tilted her head, more curious than surprised. “Romance? From Ishikawa-san?”

I nodded slowly. “The guy buys beer every night and writes love stories on the side?”

We exchanged a look. The same look you give when the class wallflower suddenly shows up dressed as a delinquent.

The tired salaryman… a secret romantic?

The pages sat on the counter like contraband. I couldn’t stop thinking about them all shift.

Sure enough, the next evening Ishikawa returned. Same shuffle, same combo.

I slid his change across the counter, then held up the folded papers. “You left these yesterday.”

He blinked. For the first time, color crept into his cheeks. “Ah. Thank you.”

Miyu, ever the sniper, leaned forward. “You write romance?”

Ishikawa scratched his cheek sheepishly. “Just a hobby. Helps me unwind. The characters won’t shut up, so I listen.”

I nearly dropped the register keys. “You… hear your characters?”

He shrugged. “Cheaper than therapy.”

Was I supposed to laugh at that? Because I kind of wanted to cry.

Miyu’s lips twitched like she was fighting a smirk. “So… is it any good?”

He chuckled again, the sound rasping out like it hadn’t been used in years. “Probably not. But that’s not the point.”

I stared. This guy was way more interesting than I ever gave him credit for.

Later, during a lull, Miyu plopped onto a stool and started flipping through Ishikawa’s pages.

“This isn’t bad,” she announced. “The dialogue’s stiff, but the emotions land.”

I peeked over her shoulder. “Wait, are you editing his story?”

“Someone has to. At this point, he’s basically submitting it for grading.” She uncapped a red pen like she’d been waiting all day for this.

“Brutal,” I muttered.

“Better brutal than boring,” she shot back.

The next night, Ishikawa returned for his combo—and stopped short when Miyu handed him the marked-up pages.

“Red ink?” he said, blinking.

“Constructive criticism,” she replied, cool as ever.

He stared at the notes. Then, to my surprise, he smiled faintly. “Haven’t seen this much red since my expense reports.”

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.

After he left, I leaned against the counter, staring at the space where his pages had been.

“He writes because the characters keep talking,” I murmured.

Miyu shot me a look. “Don’t think too hard. You’ll sprain something.”

“Still,” I said, “it’s…kind of cool. He’s stuck in a boring job, but he still chases something. Most people would just give up.”

She paused, pen still in hand. “…It’s not easy. Putting yourself out there.”

I glanced at her. “Have you ever wanted to write something?”

She shrugged. “I prefer reading. Less risk. Writers bleed ink. Readers sip tea and just turn a page.”

I chuckled, but her words stuck. What did I even chase? Passing grades? Surviving Miyu’s sarcasm? Certainly not romance.

And yet, the thought of Ishikawa scribbling after midnight wouldn’t leave me alone.

 The street outside was quiet, the air damp with the faint smell of asphalt.

Across the road, under the humming glow of a streetlight, Ishikawa stood with his notebook balanced against his briefcase. His pen scratched furiously, moths fluttering around the light above him.

For once, he didn’t look beaten down by spreadsheets or deadlines. He looked like the main character of his own story.

Miyu followed my gaze. “He’ll probably be back tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I said softly.

We stood there in silence, watching him write.

“Do you think he’ll ever finish it?” I asked.

Miyu’s expression softened. “If he keeps showing up, maybe.”

I watched the pen move across the page, and for the first time, I wondered what kind of story I’d write—if I ever stopped long enough to listen to the characters in my own head.