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The day Hirose arrived at the classroom announcing, with laughs and a clumsy shyness, that he was finally dating the girl from the other class, Nakamura’s world turned off. Nobody noticed it at the time. Everyone congratulated Hirose, patted him on the back, and Nakamura... Nakamura just smiled. A perfect, practiced smile—the kind of smile that breaks your soul on the inside while keeping up appearances on the outside.
He said goodbye early that Friday, claiming he had a headache. Nobody insisted he stay. Nobody walked him to the station.
On Monday morning, Nakamura’s seat was empty.
When the homeroom teacher walked into the classroom with bloodshot eyes and a cracking voice, the air became heavy. Hirose wasn’t even paying attention; he was replying to a text message under his desk, smiling.
—Please, be quiet —the teacher said, leaning his hands on the podium to keep from shaking —I have very grave news to share. Your classmate, Nakamura... passed away this weekend.
The word "passed away" hit the classroom like a bucket of freezing water. Hirose dropped his phone. The device hit the floor with a sharp click, but nobody cared.
—It was suicide —the teacher added, unable to meet his students' eyes —The family asks for respect.
The following days were a descent into hell for everyone, but especially for Hirose.
It was there, in the void of the routine, where they realized the true scale of the disaster. Nakamura was the invisible glue of the group, the constant presence that nobody valued because they took it for granted that he would always be there.
During lunches, nobody took care of saving the table near the window. The spot felt strangely cold. During exams, the perfectly organized study notes that Nakamura used to share without asking for anything in return—especially when he saw someone collapsing from stress—were gone. In the laughter, that soft, contained laugh was missing. The one that always validated Hirose’s silly jokes, even when nobody else laughed.
Hirose tried to find refuge in his girlfriend, but it was impossible. Every time she held his hand, he felt a corrosive guilt burning through his chest. He remembered Nakamura’s last look. God, that last look. There was no anger in Nakamura’s eyes that Friday; there was an awful resignation, a goodbye that Hirose was too blinded by his own happiness to see.
One afternoon, two weeks after the funeral, the group gathered at their usual café. The silence was unbearable. Nobody touched their food.
—It’s my fault —one of the friends suddenly blurted out, covering his face with his hands. —Last Thursday he asked me if we could go grab a drink after school. I told him I couldn't because I had to play video games. He asked me twice, guys. His voice sounded so strange... and I told him no.
—No, it’s not your fault —another girl whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. —It’s everyone’s fault. We always left him for last. We always assumed he was fine because he never complained. We used him as a support system, and nobody bothered to ask him how he was feeling.
Hirose said nothing. He stood up abruptly, making the chair screech against the floor, and ran to the restroom.
He leaned against the sink, breathing heavily, and pulled out of his pocket the piece of paper that Nakamura’s mother had handed him at the wake. The final note.
“I’m sorry for taking up so much space.”
—You’re an idiot, Nakamura... —Hirose sobbed, breaking down completely for the first time. The crying tore at his throat, leaving him breathless. —You didn't take up space... you were are all the space. You were everything.
He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold floor, hugging his knees. His relationship with his girlfriend wouldn't last a month; he knew it. Nakamura’s ghost and the weight of everything left unsaid would make sure to destroy any trace of joy in his life.
Nakamura had left thinking he was a burden, never knowing that by turning off his light, he had left everyone else cursed, trapped forever in the absolute darkness.