The End

Riko woke up reaching.

That was the first mistake.

Her hand slid across the sheets before her eyes opened, fingers searching for warmth, for cream white skin, for soft hair, for horns she could curl her hand around and pretend she was only teasing when really she needed proof. The bed was too wide. That had been the problem with the new apartment from the beginning. Too much space. Too much room for someone to be gone. Too much room for silence to stretch itself out beside her and wear Yuzu’s shape.

Her hand found cold sheets.

Riko’s eyes opened.

For one second she did not understand.

The fireplace had burned down to a low red glow. Snowlight pressed against the huge windows, making the studio apartment look pale and blue and dead around the edges. Charlie stood by the glass in his big blue pot, decorated in ribbons and little bells, silver vines hanging like a patient curtain. The table was crooked. One chair had been knocked over. A blanket was half on the floor. The room smelled wrong. Too many bodies. Too much heat gone stale. Too much of last night still clinging to the air like a confession nobody had cleaned up.

Yuzu was not there.

Riko sat up too fast.

“Yuzu?”

Her voice cracked.

No answer.

Not from the kitchenette. Not from the bathroom. Not from the old brick corner where he sometimes curled up with a mug and stared at the city like he was trying to forgive it. Not from the window beside Charlie. Not from the floor near the fireplace.

Gone.

Her throat tightened so violently that for a moment her vocal system stuttered. A sharp pulse of cyan light ran down her seams, then fractured red, then gold, then red again. Panic moved through her with no order. No direction. Just raw electric animal terror inside a body that had been built too carefully to know what to do with it.

No.

No, no, no.

He was downstairs.

He was buying bread.

That was stupid. He made bread. He would not buy bread.

He was in the bathroom.

The bathroom door was open.

He was hiding.

He would not hide from her.

He might.

He had.

He had looked at her last night like something in him had finally gone quiet.

Riko pushed herself off the bed, almost tripped over one of her own boots, and staggered toward the kitchenette. “Yuzu?”

The kettle sat cold on the counter.

His mug was gone.

That detail hit her harder than it should have. Yuzu had taken his mug. The yellow one with the tiny painted lemons and the little chip near the handle. He had taken his work bag too. His coat was gone from the hook. His boots were gone. The little folded scarf Mara had given him was gone.

Not stormed out.

Packed.

Chosen.

Her eyes found the table.

There was a note.

Not a system message. Not a panel. Not a quick little “went out, be back soon,” with one of his nervous smiling faces and too many explanations.

Paper.

Actual paper.

Cream colored Red Hearth paper with tiny moving hearth flames along the border. The kind he had used for his letter to Saanthaklaas. The kind she had teased him for being sentimental about. It sat in the center of the low table, weighed down by the small dragon ornament from Charlie’s branch.

Her name was written on the front.

Riko.

Not Mira.

Not Firefly.

Riko.

The name he used.

The name she had chosen because she thought he would like it.

Her hands shook as she picked it up.

For a moment, she hated the paper. Hated it for being real. Hated it for not glitching, not vanishing, not turning into some stupid prank she could get angry at instead of afraid. Her vision flickered. The apartment pulsed between too sharp and too blurred. She unfolded the note.

Yuzu’s handwriting was careful.

Riko,

I do not know how to say this in a way that will not hurt you.

I’m sorry. I know Mara says I apologize too much, and maybe this is one of those times, but I am sorry because I know this will hurt. I know you are going to read it and feel abandoned. I know part of you will think I am punishing you, or that I never loved you enough, or that someone convinced me to leave.

That is not what this is.

I am leaving because I cannot keep being hurt like this.

Riko stopped breathing.

Her fingers tightened until the paper bent.

No.

No, no, no.

She read faster, then slower, then faster again, every word hitting at the wrong speed.

Last night was the last straw. Not because you wanted Vashka. Not because she is a troll, or because what happened was strange or messy or embarrassing or complicated. I need you to understand that. I am not leaving because you wanted something that included someone else. I am not leaving because you have desires that are bigger or stranger than mine.

I think, if you had asked me, I might have said yes.

Maybe not right away. Maybe I would have been scared. Maybe we would have needed rules. Maybe I would have cried a little because I do that. But I would have listened. I would have tried to understand. I might have wanted to share that with you if it was honest and safe and ours.

But you did not ask.

You made a deal with her for the apartment. You kept it from me. You let me build a home inside a lie. You let me decorate Charlie beside a window I did not know was being paid for with secrets. You let me think we were safe there. You let me think we were choosing things together.

I can forgive a lot. I have forgiven a lot. Maybe too much.

I cannot forgive being made into the last person to know my own life.

Riko made a sound.

It came out as a broken click in her throat, half sob, half system error. Light leaked from her eyes before tears formed properly, thin luminous tracks sliding down her face and falling onto the page. The droplets glowed faintly where they struck the paper.

She wiped at them frantically, afraid they would ruin the words.

Afraid of losing even this.

The note continued.

I love you.

That is why this is so hard.

I love you with all my heart, Riko. Not a small love. Not a confused love. Not only because you were the first person who touched me like I was wanted. Not only because you stayed. I love you because you are funny and sharp and scared and bright. I love you because you try even when trying hurts you. I love you because sometimes you look at the world like you want to bite it before it bites you first, and sometimes you cry over toast because you realize you are allowed to live somewhere.

I love you because you are Riko.

But loving you does not make this stop hurting.

I keep waiting for the version of us where the floor does not vanish. I keep thinking if I am patient enough, kind enough, brave enough, soft enough, honest enough, then one day I will stop being scared of what I will discover next.

I do not want to be scared of the person I love.

I do not want to check every happy thing for a hidden cost.

I do not want to wonder if the next beautiful moment is built on something you did not tell me.

I do not want to become someone who stays because leaving would hurt you more than staying hurts me.

Riko’s knees gave out.

She sank onto the floor beside the table with the note in both hands, naked and cold and shaking under the snow blue window light.

“No,” she whispered.

The word did nothing.

The note remained.

I am blocking your contact.

I know that will hurt you. I know it may feel cruel. I am sorry for that too. But if I leave the door open, you will message me, and I will answer, because I love you and because I am weak where you are hurting. You will say the thing that makes me turn around. I know you will. Maybe you will mean it. Maybe you will not. I do not know anymore, and that is the problem.

Please do not come looking for me.

Please take care of Charlie until I can ask for him back, or until you decide what is kindest. He is only a plant, but he mattered to me. You know that.

You mattered more.

You still do.

That is why I have to leave.

I hope one day you are happy in a way that does not require fear first.

I hope one day I am too.

I love you.

Goodbye, Riko.

Yuzu.

Riko stared at the last line until the letters stopped being letters.

Goodbye, Riko.

Goodbye.

No.

No, because he had said I love you.

No, because he loved her.

No, because you did not leave someone you loved. You stayed. You fought. You screamed. You broke things. You came back through windows. You apologized badly. You apologized better. You said it again and again and again until the other person believed it or got too tired to argue.

You did not write goodbye in careful handwriting and take your lemon mug.

The paper crumpled slightly in her grip.

Her other hand moved to her stomach.

The motion was automatic.

Protective.

Terrified.

Her palm pressed flat against the place where the secret lived.

Not visible yet. Not to anyone else. Not in a way Yuzu would have noticed unless she had told him. Døll bodies did strange things with life. Synthetic organs, living machinery, code braided with blood and memory. She had run the confirmation three times. Then five. Then nine, because nine felt safer than ten and ten felt like tempting dice to laugh.

Pregnant.

Yuzu’s child.

Their child.

The whole reason.

The apartment. The window. The fireplace. The extra space she pretended was too much but secretly counted in the dark. Space for a crib. Space for soft little blankets. Space for Charlie to grow big enough that the baby could one day pull on his vines and Yuzu would panic and apologize to the plant and the baby and the concept of childhood all at once.

She had been waiting until Christmas.

She had planned it.

Actually planned. Something soft. Something wrapped in paper. Something good.

She had imagined the mailbox delivering Yuzu’s letter to her, because he had been so suspicious and sweet about hiding it. She had imagined handing him her own box after. A little silver rattle shaped like a lemon, a confirmation charm tucked beneath it, her hands shaking, her eyes bright, saying, “Surprise, peach boy,” like she was not about to collapse from fear.

She had wanted him to cry happy.

She had wanted, just once, to be the reason he cried happy without also being the reason he hurt.

Her fingers dug into her stomach.

“I was going to tell you,” she whispered to the empty apartment.

The apartment did not care.

Charlie’s bells moved faintly by the window.

Riko looked at him.

For one mad second, she hated him. Hated the plant for still being there. Hated Yuzu for asking her to take care of him. Hated herself because she had thrown him out a window once and Yuzu had still trusted her with him in the end.

Then the hate collapsed under the weight of grief.

“I ruined it,” she told Charlie.

Her voice sounded small.

Too small for the apartment.

“I ruined everything.”

That was when she started screaming.

Not words at first.

Just sound.

A raw, tearing, light filled sound that came out of her throat and filled the studio until the frosted windows seemed to tremble. Her seams flared red white. Her hands clenched around the note, then released it in panic because she could not damage it, could not damage the last thing he had left her, could not, could not, could not.

She placed it carefully on the table.

Then she destroyed the table.

Her fist came down through the blackwood with a crack that split it in half. Cards flew. Riko’s tools scattered. A mug shattered against the floor. The little dragon ornament bounced once and rolled under a chair. She grabbed the chair and threw it across the room. It hit the brick wall and broke, legs snapping, red cushion spilling out like a wound.

“No!” she screamed.

She did not know who she was answering.

Yuzu.

The note.

Herself.

The world.

Every version of her that had ever made the wrong choice at exactly the wrong time.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

She tore the blanket from the bed and threw it. Kicked the fallen chair. Swept the counter clean with one arm, sending cups, utensils, and a little jar of winter sugar crashing to the floor. The kettle shaped like a fat bird spun off the edge and hit the rug with a dull clang. Riko sobbed when she saw it.

Yuzu liked that kettle.

She picked it up immediately, cradling it against her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped.

To the kettle.

To Charlie.

To the baby.

To Yuzu, who was not there.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Her system opened without her meaning to.

Yuzu’s contact glowed in front of her.

She messaged him.

Riko: Yuzu.

The message failed.

Blocked.

Riko: Yuzu please.

Failed.

Riko: I read it.

Failed.

Riko: I’m pregnant.

Her finger hovered before sending that one.

She froze.

If she sent it and it failed, it would be real.

If she sent it and it somehow went through, it would be cruel.

Would it be cruel?

Was telling him cruel?

Was not telling him worse?

Was she using the baby like a leash if she told him now? Was she lying again if she did not? Was every choice she made poison because it came from her?

Her hand shook.

She deleted it.

Then typed again.

Riko: Please unblock me.

Failed.

Riko: I won’t say anything bad.

Failed.

Riko: I won’t ask you to come back.

Failed.

Riko: That’s a lie I will ask.

Failed.

Riko: I’m sorry.

Failed.

Riko: I’m sorry.

Failed.

Riko: I’m sorry.

Failed.

Again.

Again.

Again.

At some point she stopped reading the failure notices. She just kept sending. The messages stacked like bodies against a locked door.

Riko: I love you.

Failed.

Riko: Say something.

Failed.

Riko: I know you can’t see this.

Failed.

Riko: Maybe you’ll unblock me and then you’ll see them.

Failed.

Riko: Maybe you’ll know I waited.

Failed.

Riko: I’m waiting.

Failed.

She waited.

At first, waiting looked like sitting on the floor beside the broken table with Yuzu’s note against her chest. Then it looked like crawling to the bed and curling around his pillow. Then it looked like standing suddenly because she thought she heard his key charm in the hall, only to find nothing but old pipes and wind.

She did not eat.

There was toast. Winter bread. Jam. Leftover noodles in the cold box. The cinnamon roll he had brought home crushed flat in its paper near the door.

She picked it up once.

Held it.

Put it down.

She could not eat it.

Eating it felt like stealing from a ghost.

She did not drink either. The kettle had water. The tap worked. Her body warned her eventually, soft little system notices about coolant balance and nutrient intake and emotional strain. She dismissed them.

Then disabled noncritical alerts.

Then turned them back on because disabling them felt like something Yuzu would worry about.

Then cried because Yuzu was not there to worry.

The first day passed in pieces.

Snow fell.

The fireplace went out.

The apartment cooled.

She pulled Yuzu’s shirt from the laundry and wrapped it around herself. It smelled faintly like him. Bread, citrus soap, patch adhesive, warm skin. She pressed her face into it until the scent faded under her own tears.

She messaged him.

Riko: I didn’t mean to make home a lie.

Failed.

Riko: I thought if the apartment was good enough you’d be happy.

Failed.

Riko: I thought if you were happy then I could tell you everything and it would be okay.

Failed.

Riko: That sounds stupid now.

Failed.

Riko: I am stupid.

Failed.

Riko: You would say I’m not.

Failed.

Riko: I need you to say I’m not.

Failed.

Riko: Please.

Failed.

The second day was quieter.

That was worse.

The first day had been screaming. The second day was the hollow after screaming, when the throat hurt and the body had run out of dramatic ways to prove pain existed. Riko lay on the floor near Charlie because the bed was too much. Charlie’s vines hung down near her face, silver leaves glowing faintly in the dim apartment.

She reached up and touched one.

“I’m sorry I threw you,” she whispered.

Charlie did not answer.

“He loved you.”

A pause.

“I love you too. Maybe. I think. I don’t know how plant love works.”

Her hand drifted back to her stomach.

“I don’t know how any love works.”

She closed her eyes.

In the dark behind them she saw Yuzu’s face when he laughed. Yuzu in a pink dress, confused and glowing with realizations. Yuzu in bed, whispering I love you too often because she needed him to. Yuzu kneeling beside an injured man, putting an arm back on because violence and kindness were not separate categories in his strange little head. Yuzu holding Charlie’s broken pot. Yuzu reading messages. Yuzu saying, I can’t only exist where you can see me.

She should have listened then.

She had heard him.

But hearing was not listening.

She kept thinking love was a door she could block with her body.

If she stood there hard enough, no one could leave.

But doors opened outward sometimes.

Yuzu had opened one.

He had walked through.

The note lay on the floor beside her now, unfolded and read so many times that the creases had softened. She had memorized whole parts of it. The cruel parts. The kind parts. The worse than cruel kind parts.

I do not want to become someone who stays because leaving would hurt you more than staying hurts me.

She hated that sentence.

She loved him for writing it.

She hated him for being strong enough to leave.

She loved him for leaving before she could make him stay.

She hated herself most.

By the end of the second day, the apartment smelled like cold ash, broken sugar, and old grief.

Riko stood.

Too quickly.

Her vision flickered and her balance system complained. She caught herself on the wall, laughed once, and hated the sound. The laugh sounded like someone else. Someone meaner. Someone named Mira. Someone named Riko. Someone with no name at all.

She went to the bathroom.

Looked in the mirror.

Her skin looked dull. Her eyes were ringed in red light. Her hair hung tangled around her face, orange red and white streaks limp from neglect. The cyan seams along her body pulsed irregularly, like a city grid after a storm.

She placed both hands on the sink.

“I am Riko,” she said.

The mirror did not argue.

“I am Riko because he loved Riko.”

Her mouth trembled.

“Maybe that counts.”

She dressed slowly.

Not in something pretty. Not in something meant to be seen. Dark shorts. Heavy boots. Her bright jacket. The one Yuzu liked. The one he said made her look like trouble. She pulled it on and stood in the middle of the ruined apartment.

What did people take when they left a life?

Money.

Weapon.

Coat.

Proof.

She took Yuzu’s note.

Folded it carefully.

Put it inside her jacket, against her chest.

Then she went to Charlie.

For a long moment, she only stood there, looking at the little moonvine tree with his red ribbons and gold bells. His pot was too heavy for her to carry far, and she did not know where she was going.

“I can’t take you,” she whispered.

The words almost broke her again.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ll ask someone. Mara maybe. No. She hates me. She should hate me. Maybe Sel. Sel is responsible. Yuzu trusts her. She’ll keep you safe.”

Charlie’s leaves shifted.

Riko touched the pot once.

“If he comes back before I do, tell him…”

She stopped.

Her throat closed.

What could a plant tell him?

That she waited?

That she was sorry?

That there was a child?

That she had left because staying in the apartment felt like standing inside the corpse of every chance she had been given?

No.

Charlie could tell him nothing.

That was kinder.

Riko opened her system panel and stared at Yuzu’s blocked contact one last time.

Riko: I’m leaving.

Failed.

Riko: Not because I stopped loving you.

Failed.

Riko: I think you were my first real love.

Failed.

Riko: I’m sorry I only understood that after I ruined it.

Failed.

Riko: There is something I should tell you.

Her fingers froze.

The words waited.

The secret pressed under her palm.

Pregnant.

Their child.

His child.

A reason to stay.

A reason to come after her.

A reason to hate her forever if he thought she used it wrong.

She deleted the message.

Riko: Maybe one day.

Failed.

Riko: Maybe in another city.

Failed.

Riko: Maybe when I know how to be someone who doesn’t hurt what she loves.

Failed.

Riko: I love you, Yuzu.

Failed.

Riko: Say it better.

She stared at that one after she sent it.

Failed.

Riko laughed.

Then cried.

Then turned off the panel.

The apartment door opened quietly.

The hallway beyond was cold.

Snowlight spilled in from the far window. Somewhere below, someone was singing a Red Hearth song off key. Somewhere in the city, letters were moving through magic and winter wind. Somewhere, maybe, Yuzu was holding himself together with both hands. Somewhere, the ring he had sent was still traveling toward a home that was no longer whole.

Riko stepped into the hall.

She did not lock the door.

She walked down the stairs slowly at first, one hand on the railing, the other pressed over Yuzu’s note. By the third floor, she was moving faster. By the lobby, she was almost running. The building door opened into falling snow, and the city swallowed her in white.

New Avalon was huge.

That was good.

Huge things had places to disappear.

The streets were bright with holiday lanterns, but the storm blurred everything at the edges. People hurried past with gifts under their arms and scarves over their mouths. A child laughed. A tram bell rang. A gargoyle shook snow from its wings high above and sent white powder cascading into the alley.

Riko stood on the sidewalk and looked up.

There were roads out of the city.

Portal stations.

Old tunnels.

Guild routes.

Bridges into districts where no one knew Riko, or Mira, or the girl with the bat, or the one who ruined everything she touched.

There were rooftops too.

High places.

Dark rails.

Cold rivers beneath old bridges.

The thought passed through her without shape.

Not a plan.

Not yet.

Just a door in the mind, opening briefly onto wind.

Riko closed her eyes.

she would walk until the snow stopped, and then keep walking because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant Yuzu, and Yuzu meant the letter pressed against her chest like a second heart.

She looked back once.

The apartment window was far above, warm and dark at the same time. Charlie’s glow was barely visible through the frost.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Riko turned away from the building.

She walked into the storm.