Maybe, I’m slow…but what does the 2705 on the room key represent?
The number of times Aiba felt heartbroken because MC never noticed him.
Or the number of times Genji thought back on his love from highschool and hoped she would be waiting, only to in the end discover that she had moved on and was married.
Or the number of times Kiyoto lamented the past, promised himself a different future, but keeps making the same mistakes.
Or the number of times Koichi ruminates over how his cheating has devastated his wife, has demolished his future possibilities, has left his self-esteem shattered.
Take your pick, Shiko.
The number of women Ginnosuke had before he met the MC and learned the true meaning of love.
The number of times Aiba asked the MC out before she finally accepted and realized he’d always been there for her.
The number of apologies Koichi made and the number of times he thanked her for always being by his side no matter what he did in the past to hurt her.
The number of paintings Kiyoto will make of his beloved muse, the MC, when she finally showed him the real selflessness of love.
The number of times Genji announced before hordes of fans that the MC motivates him to be the best possible man he can be and the number of times he tells her he loves her and always will.
WELL JUST RUIN EVERYTHING AND MAKE IT HAPPY WHY DONT YOU
The number of tears Kippei cried when he realized that she was always meant to be with Koichi. Also the number of unsent letters he had written for her. The number of times he looked at her in discreet at work every day to see if she was okay. The number of times he would mouth to her, ‘I love you’ but she could never see it—or hear it. Hushed whispers of love never reached.
The number of love charms Aiba bought to hope that she would be with him, only to realize that he had lost her to his boss—the only person she saw with love in her eyes. Aiba would always be second. Always.
The number of shots Koichi took in realization that he had flubbed up, and the number of times he had said sorry to her in front of her doorstep, even though he never had the courage to tell her face-to-face, also the number of times he prayed to the shrine, hoping that he could start over.
The number of time Kiyoto stabbed at his canvas knowing that the only person who could pose for him, love him, or even remotely cared for him is lost in the arms of some other man. Number of brush strokes he made on the painting of the regret he had felt about losing her.
The number of kicks and punches Genji threw at a punching bag, trying to relieve stress. The number of times he had thought about her when she was looking directly into someone else’s eye with the look she used to give him when they were still dating. The number of unsaid confessions had made in the room next to her, hoping that she would somehow catch and turn around back to him.
The number of times they said, “If only I could turn back time and start over…and make her happy.”—but never can…and never will.
The number of times KIyoto paints the MC while she slept, too embarrassed to let her see his fascination in drawing her and the number of times Kiyoto winscawards for his art, all because of the MC’s support in his trip to Paris.
The number of times Genji keeps his promises to the MC after 12 long years of waiting and the number of times they sneak away from the media spotlight to have their own romantic moment.
The number of times Kippei has dinner with the MC’s parents, who laugh and welcome him as the son they never had, and the number of times Kippei tells the MC he loves her and takes leave from work just to spend all day in bed with her.
The number of times Ginnosuke prepares a meal for the MC while she plays with Milk in his apartment, and the number of times he whisks her away from work in the middle of the day just so he can spend more time with her.
The number of times Koichi ignores his boss’ hatred for him because of his past relationship with Ai, because his relationship now with and love for the MC is worth any demotion or humiliation combined, and the number of times he whispers that he loves her while he watches her sleep at night.
The number of times Aiba takes the MC on a real date and the number of times he makes her laugh, supporting her so that she never again feels the sting of loss or betrayal.
The number of times Ginnosuke realized that it’s not her beside him every night, as he heard the sound of waking dawn, another sleepless night passed by without realization. The number of times he glanced in the mirror to see the black circles under his eyes darkening, the number of times he saw her in the mirror in hallucination that she was actually here… (sorry I didn’t play his route sorry if it’s not accurate)
The number of time Kippei glanced at the empty coffee cup in his office when she left work early for her husband, and number of times he traced the lining of the handle and thought of her as he forced himself to turn around and consume himself in work again, hoping to never think of her—but he always did. The paper she did, the proposal she wrote…sitting on his desk reminded him of her existence with her husband, not him.
The number of times Koichi wanted to ruin himself because of the errors he made. The number of times he wanted to throw away everything he had just so he could take her back. The number of times he took out the picture of the two of them as babies and cried with the image of losing her, and lost her with the existence of a mistress, Ai. The number of times he slapped himself on the face for not realizing it earlier.
The number of times Aiba glanced up at her when they were at work, her bubbly attitude and the words she spoke about her loving husband, just married to Kippei, his boss, as they exchanged glances at each other during office hours, and the number of times he spotted them holding each other in the halls when they thought no one was watching. The number of times he felt his heart clench when they exchanged words of love…to each other. Not him.
The number of times Genji saw her a the bar with her lover, sitting close to each other, holding each other in love as they talked about things he never got to hear. The number of times he wished that the person sitting beside her was him—the one who was holding her, him, and the one who kissed her, him, and not they guy she was with. The number times he dreamed about her leaving him in pieces. The number of times he woke up in cold sweat with only her in mind, every single night.
The number of time Kiyoto he threw his canvas because he could never paint anything as beautiful as he did with her. The number of times he rejected his artwork being put up because it was his last painting of her, the last painting that she had rejected because her heart didn’t belong to him. The number of times he said ‘no’ to anyone who wanted to buy the painting because it was the last momento of her—last image of her he captured on canvas, last confession of love he could hope to deliver to a replacement so that he could somehow feel better. But never can.
Reblogging again for the angst and the happiness.