Pulse

I waited as long as I could.

I gathered what was left—the last rice balls, some tangy candy, those fishy chips you tried to get me to eat—along with clean underwear, a couple tees, a pair of socks. I took the hammer and a screwdriver from the closet, though I didn’t know what I’d do with them.

Everything around the condo seemed to work fine. The lights still turned on and off, the water still flowed from the faucets—both hot and cold! I did the dishes before I left because it felt wrong to leave dirty dishes behind. I took your keys and locked up behind me.

The elevators in your building were still running. I pressed the down button a dozen times, just to see what would happen. The first time, it took a while to arrive—ding!—and open, but every time after that, it was already there, waiting behind closed doors. I took the stairs.

When I reached the bottom and stepped out into the main lobby, I noted that those two tall doors to the street still glimmered—pure shimmering glass—that pristine, modern Japanese aesthetic I love and you can’t stand—as though everything was as it should be. As though what was beyond that blue glass was usual, typical, another day.

I enjoyed the typical days we had. Lying in bed too long, then spending the afternoons and evenings wandering busy streets and eating food I’d never heard of. It was comforting being around you, no matter what part of the city we explored and no matter how consistently lost I was. Arriving back at your building every night gave me a sense of relief.

Standing in your lobby then, part of me expected to be greeted by the same busy Tokyo streets we roamed. The chatty teens, the women dressed to kill, the businessmen who—I swear—all bought the same suit. The smell from the fried fish shop next door and the stout guy who worked there every day.

But, of course, that’s not what greeted me.

As I moved forward and the doors slid open, I saw clearly what I’d seen from the 27th floor. I stood for a while, waiting for something to change. Waiting for anything. The autumn air was unmoving, an intense stillness. Like the aftermath of a seizure. The ground was wet—it just stopped raining.

I slowly stepped over a body—a man, face down, arms splayed like a bird into a windshield, his legs still on the two steps leading up to the lobby. My initial urge was to help him, at least turn his face so it wasn’t pressed into the sidewalk, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch him.

I sat beside him. He reminded me of you, even from this angle. Similar height and build, similar jacket to the one you were wearing in that first picture I saw of you.

I loved that picture. Your smile was warm but silly. I didn’t chat with anyone from away, but my last few dates were nothing to write home about, so I took a shot on that smile.

The few months talking to you were some of the best of my life. Cute, engaging, flirty, wonderful conversations to break up my days and nights. I didn’t expect to like you, let alone fall for you, but I did. When I booked the ticket, I thought: If it doesn’t work out, I can explore on my own. A month in Japan will be incredible, no matter what.

On my way over to Tokyo, I did get the feeling that I was making a mistake. I tossed it away as that casual dread you get when flying, when doing something big, but maybe the knot in my stomach was a warning. I don’t typically believe things like that, but I wouldn’t have believed all of this either.

I knew quickly that I wasn’t the last one left. I’d known from the condo—I heard breaking glass and the occasional shout amidst the quiet. Sitting next to the man, I could see there were shattered windows into seemingly random shops, open car doors, even spray-painted words. I recognized a few symbols I wish I hadn’t—bad luck, (凶) an x in a drawer, and disaster, (厄) a swirl under an awning—scrawled across the side of a white cube van and on the wet road beside it.

Nearly everything else, from the storefronts to the graffiti, was a total mystery to me. I travelled here, relying on you to guide me.

The frozen streets became more unsettling the longer I looked around. Cars in the sides of buildings, cars with street lamps in their engines, cars in piles with other cars. Drivers forever trapped behind the very best air bags. Black scars of exhausted fires.

The morning it happened, I'd realized you weren’t for me. The days of wonder had already passed and I was beginning to miss my actual life and its boring familiarity. I enjoyed your company—I hope you knew that.

And then, while I was having a coffee on your balcony, standing and looking out over the tops of tall buildings, I heard a terrible crash below. Before I could look down to study the situation, I heard fifty more crashes. Car alarms sounded together as a symphony of discord. Smoke began billowing up out of the noise. Scared, I called in to you, but heard nothing back.

I found you on the kitchen floor. A broken egg on the tile next to your hand.

I landed on my knees, turned your face to mine. I grabbed my phone and called for help. I had to search for what number to call—119, not 911—but no one answered. I shook you and shook you—you’re heavier than I would have thought—but you weren’t there. I ran into the hall, banged on doors, screamed to anyone all at once.

For the next day, I left you in the kitchen. I brought food into the bedroom to keep my distance, afraid it would happen to me. I looked out over the city, watching the dark clouds dissipate and the signs of chaos vanish. I searched online—no news, no updates. A solitary new tweet read: is anyone out there?? I watched you from the sofa, waiting for you to move.

Finally, on the fourth day, I steeled myself and dragged you up into the bed. It took a while, but I got you there. I tucked you in, like I’d want to be.

I sat with you. I scanned your face for any life, any twitch. I checked for a pulse. Your body was growing very cold, so I put another blanket over you. I asked you questions—I wonder how many are still alive? Is my family out there? Am I immune? Why am I alive? Why did I come here?—but you didn’t answer. I noticed creases on you I’d missed before, the gentle curls of the hairs near your ears. I found constellations of tiny freckles on your hands—I don’t know how I missed them the first time. Your smile drooped now, but I could still envision it on your face, like a sunset shadow.

I wanted you so badly to wake up. I knew you wouldn’t, but I waited as long as I could.

And as I sat beside the man on the steps, I asked him that same question. Why did I come here? Feeling silly, I smirked—my first smile since that morning—and looked over to him. I noticed a heart-shaped pendant to the right of him in a small, neon puddle, illuminated by a nearby billboard, still pulsing light to a disappeared crowd.

I shuffled over and held the pendant in my palm, the chain in a clump, and thought—if it were real—it could be worth something, out there somewhere. I clenched my fist around it, watching a leaf roll by as a breeze picked up. The neon puddles rippled.

I dropped the pendant in the man’s jacket pocket.

Letting out a heavy breath, I stood.