Chapter 12: The Long-Bolted Door of the Heart

There is one thing more agonizing than being rejected.

It is being forgotten.

Not hated. Not hurt. Simply… erased.

I realize this every time Harumasa Kengo looks at me with eyes that hold no trace of our shared past. His gaze is composed. Mature. Frigid. It is the look one gives to a stranger they’ve just met in a passing corridor.

Yet, I was there. I once stood right beside him. I saw him laugh without a care in the world. I saw him crumble. And I… I did nothing.

From that very first day of university—when he stood at the front of the lecture hall and introduced himself in a voice as flat as a heart monitor for the dead—I felt it. His voice didn't tremble. He wasn't nervous. It was just… empty. It wasn't the sound of someone who had lost love; it was the sound of someone who had stopped believing in its existence entirely.

And the part that stings the most? He doesn’t even recognize me.

Every time he addresses me by my full name, an invisible chasm opens between us. “Kurumi Mitsuzu.”

Not “Mitsuzu-chan.” No familiar lilt. No warmth. Just a clinical formality.

That is where the weight in my chest begins to settle. A small, caustic whisper echoes inside me: Is this my fault? Am I the one who carved this void into him? Did I stand still for too long?

It feels as though a massive door stands between us. A door that was once slightly ajar, inviting me in. But now, it is bolted shut. Rusted. Barricaded from the inside.

The door to a heart that has long been closed.

And here I am, standing before it—not as a guest, not as an invited friend, but as someone who realized far too late that the invitation had already expired.

When I watch him teach others how to smile in the clubroom, I catch glimpses of the person I almost forgot. He speaks calmly. Logically. Rationally. He says love isn't something that can be managed. He says feelings aren't a project to be solved with a formula. He sounds like a man who has finished his business with the human heart.

Yet, the way he looks at those who are hurting… that hasn't changed. He listens with a devastating sincerity. He consoles without condescending. He never mocks the fragility of another person’s soul.

And when he struck Rena Mitsurugi’s father that day—for the first time, I saw the true crack in his mask. He was furious. His hands were shaking. His eyes weren't cold anymore; they were a storm. He lost control. Not because his pride was wounded, but because he couldn't bear to see someone crying alone.

The man who claims not to believe in love is the same man who cannot stand to see others in pain. That is the real Kengo. The trauma didn't make him cruel; it only made him stop hoping for anything for himself.

That is where my guilt deepens into a dull ache.

If only, back then… If only I had accepted his confession. If only I hadn't chosen Kusakabe. If only I hadn't operated under the arrogant assumption that he would always be there, waiting forever.

Perhaps he wouldn't be this cold. Perhaps the door wouldn't be bolted so tight.

Then there is Akito. The girl he trusted with his whole being, only for her to dismantle that trust with a surgical lack of mercy. A person as earnest as Kengo was turned into a punchline. A clown. And I just stood on the sidelines, a silent spectator to the carnage.

The day he asked me to pretend to be his girlfriend—even if it was a desperate ruse, even if it was just a scripted play—my heart wouldn't stop racing. For a fleeting second… I felt chosen. Even though I knew it was a lie.

And when I heard about his "date" with Ishikawa Yukari—even if it was just for manga research—I smiled. I told him it was fine. I said it was only temporary.

But that night, in the hollow silence of my room, I cried.

Not because he went out with someone else. Not because he touched another’s shoulder. But because I realized the ugly truth: I was jealous.

I was jealous because I wanted to be in that position. I wanted to walk beside him. I wanted to hear him say something soft, intended only for my ears. I wanted to be chosen. Not by necessity. Not by circumstance. Not for a charade.

My tears fell slowly. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just enough to make my chest feel like it was collapsing.

Perhaps this is the price of loving someone whose heart is under lock and key. You stand before the door. You knock. You wait. You hope. But you never know if there is anyone left inside who still wants to open it.

I know I’m likely too late. I know I have no right to expect anything. But that night, amidst the regret, I made a small, quiet decision.

It doesn't matter what I am to him now. A classmate. A friend. Or just a ghost from his past. I won't let him be alone anymore. Not to force him to love me. Not to demand a return on my feelings. But because I know he once stood alone in the rain, and not a single person thought to hold an umbrella for him.

If he chooses to walk without ever opening that door… If he chooses a world devoid of love… If he chooses never to look at me… I might get hurt. I might lose.

But at the very least, this time—I won't run. I won't pretend not to care. I won't say "no" out of fear ever again.

Harumasa Kengo. If your heart is truly cracked like glass, I won't try to force it back together. I only want to stand close enough so that when the cracks begin to ache, you don’t have to endure the pain in solitude.

That night, I wiped away my tears. The mirror reflected a swollen, pathetic face. How ironic. Once, I rejected him because I thought there was plenty of time. Now, time is the one rejecting me.

Love doesn't always arrive on schedule. Sometimes it shows up long after the scenery has changed. Sometimes it arrives when the door is already shut.

And maybe… maybe I really am too late.

But even so—I choose to love him. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s one-sided. Even if there are no guarantees. Because living with a lifetime of regret is far more painful than loving and never being chosen.

In the dead of that night, I let out a small, fragile smile. Not because I thought I would win. But because for the first time—I stopped running away from my own feelings.