We were a man and a woman, but we were just friends—there wasn't a shred of romantic feeling between us.

#nana56b


Synopsis

That guy, who’d been my best friend since college,
died. He was thirty-eight. It was far too early for
him to go.

We were a man and a woman, but there wasn’t a shred
of romance between us. We were just “friends” who
got along incredibly well. We’d listen to each
other’s silly relationship troubles, vent about
work, and share drinks. I’d convinced myself that
this kind of relationship would last a lifetime.

Eight years ago, he was diagnosed with breast cancer.
When I visited him in his hospital room after surgery,
he laughed and said, “Man, this is a pain,” in a
lighthearted tone, as if he’d just caught a cold. I
couldn’t find the right words to say and could only
nod vaguely.

From then on, he began a life of continuing treatment
to prevent recurrence. She kept working, and when
we’d go out for drinks from time to time, she’d
laugh and say, “Same as always.” I was optimistic,
seeing that smile as a sure step toward a full
recovery. Somewhere deep down, I had this unfounded
confidence that she, at least, would be okay.

A few years ago, the cancer came back.
She quit her job to focus on treatment. We didn’t
see each other as often, but we kept in touch via
email. The screen was filled with his usual
lighthearted banter, showing not the slightest hint
of the seriousness of his condition. I, too, made a
point of continuing to send cheerful replies.
Perhaps, somewhere deep down, I was refusing to
accept the possibility of death.

But he passed away.

When I heard the news, the first thing that came
to mind was regret.
I should have forced myself to visit him while he
was still alive. It was far away, and I was busy.
Those were nothing more than excuses I was making
to myself. Even if I had gone, there wasn’t
anything I could have done. I couldn’t have cured
his illness or taken away his pain.

Still, I should have paid closer attention to the
loneliness and anxiety that must have been hidden
behind the words in his emails. I should have
found more words to affirm him and encourage him.
Those “what-ifs” surged through my chest like a
raging torrent.

I headed to the funeral in an unfamiliar town
I’d never even set foot in before.

Lying in the coffin, his face looked surprisingly
much the same as it had all those years ago. His
profile was so serene, it was as if he were simply
fast asleep.

I had just finished offering incense, said my
goodbyes to his parents, and was about to leave
when—“Thank you for coming all this way,”
his mother said, bowing her head. When I looked
at her face, my breath caught in my throat.

That face was the spitting image of him.

The gentleness around her eyes, the shape of her
mouth, the subtle shifts in her expression. They
looked so much alike that I was under the illusion
he was actually there.

In that instant, my vision suddenly blurred.　…