Chapter 6

Stories I wanted to tell, perspectives I wanted to capture, ideas I wanted to leave behind—I had always filled my films with all of those things. And at the end of every film, there came the black screen and credits. No matter what the characters in the story had achieved or left unrealized, no matter what they had overcome or succumbed to, the credits marked the end of the movie. But life was different. Sometimes, you live through something that makes you think, If this were a movie, maybe the credits would roll here—but life goes on. It’s been almost ten years since Makoto disappeared from the world. So many things have happened in those years that it would be impossible to talk about all of them. At the end of the year he left us, we entered the Eiga Koushien Competition again and won the award for best screenplay, best actress, and best picture. It was like a parting gift for Makoto, if a little late. Determined to win an award, we’d thrown ourselves into the creative process with more enthusiasm than ever before, devising a thorough, well-thought-out plan before launching into the filming. When we found out we’d won not one, but three awards, we were over the moon. I wished we could have celebrated with Makoto. I got into a college in Tokyo where I could study film, through a special recommendation from my high school. Aoi did, too. We kept making movies throughout college, and in our third year, we even won a big award. People around me said I was well on my way to becoming a professional director, and in time, that turned into my own dream. I thought that might make Makoto happy, too, as he watched me from heaven. But the reality wasn’t so simple. There was always someone more talented in the world. Still, I plunged ahead—because making films was my whole life. I wanted to stay in the filmmaking industry after graduating from college, so I got a job at a mid-level production company. As a third assistant director—the bottom of the ladder—I spent my days and nights on filming locations. The road to becoming a film director was a constant uphill battle. After one year, most of my fellow aspiring directors who’d joined the company around the same time as me had already dropped out of the race. I didn’t give up, though. Whenever there was a call for submissions for project pitches, I feverishly wrote proposals and screenplays in what little time I had in between work. Three years slipped by like that. While my former colleagues and friends from college had their feet on the ground working as productive members of society, I was the only one who still had my head in the clouds, chasing dreams. Though I could see the state of my life better than anyone, I still wasn’t ready to give up. I kept pushing forward. But the future I sought eluded me. Of all the talented people out there, only a small handful could become directors, and eventually, my body broke down from overwork. I still wanted to keep trying—I thought I wasn’t done yet. But it turned out that I’d run out of steam. I was twenty-six then. I quit the company and found a normal office job. You did your best, I told myself. You worked hard enough. Remember all those awards you won when you were a student. Thankfully, all my new co-workers were nice people, and I got the hang of the job in no time. I didn’t have many difficult tasks to do. Every day, I would wake up, go to work, do the same old tasks, go home, and sleep. Day after day after day. After a year or so had passed by, I suddenly noticed something: There was a conveyor belt running beneath my feet. Each day slipped by as it carried me forward. I’d changed in these last ten years, and so had the people around me. Aoi, for example, started directing movies, too, once we started college. When she’d told me she wanted to try her hand at being a director, I encouraged her. During our undergrad, she would sometimes ask me for advice on her own films; at other times, we worked together as co-directors, or she joined my production team as an assistant director like in high school. Once Aoi started directing, her talents came into full bloom. After all, it was Aoi who’d introduced me to movies in the first place. Only a couple of years into directing, her films gradually began to garner attention, praised for their screenplays, among other things. She often won awards in competitions. The strength of her films lay in the script. And sure enough, when she was in her fourth year of college, she won a big prize in a screenwriting contest hosted by a TV station. Her script was turned into a TV movie, and a few years after that, she debuted as a director of commercial films. “Maybe I wanted to make my dad’s dream come true. You only get one shot at life, after all… Tsukishima taught me that.” Aoi had told me that once. Ena went through a transformation of her own as well. Sometime after Makoto passed away, she became serious about pursuing a career in acting. Back then, she told us that she wanted to give it her all, more than she ever had before. Although it took a lot to convince her parents, she managed to put her words into action. By the time she started college in Tokyo, she had already passed the audition for a theater troupe led by a famous director. She actively took part in all kinds of activities to broaden the breadth of her acting. I didn’t think she’d be the type to do something like that, but she also kept up a regular training routine to build up her physical strength. Once she started focusing all her efforts on acting, it didn’t take long for her to get noticed. In her second year at college, she landed a starring role in a play for the first time, and her performance turned heads. She kept working hard in the theater company, and eventually, a scout for a talent agency approached her, and she became a screen actor. She started acting in films while she was still in university. Ichika ended up being more drawn to literature than films. She got into a university near our hometown, and after graduating, she became an editor at a publisher. When I was in high school, I believed, naively, that the four of us in the filmmaking club would keep on making movies together, just as we’d always done. But in reality, the only time we managed to shoot a film together after Aoi and I left high school was when we went back home for summer break during our first year at college. And now I wasn’t even making movies anymore. At my current workplace, everyone’s aim was to keep everything running the same; if something veered off course, we worked together to nudge it back on track. And so we went through the same old routine day after day. At work, one of my colleagues ended up asking me out. I turned him down, but I found myself thinking that that kind of life—dating, getting married, having kids—didn’t sound too bad. It was right around that time that I received something in the mail. It was the beginning of April, and I’d gotten back to my apartment after work to find a mysterious little package waiting for me in my mailbox. I wasn’t expecting any mail, and it looked different than normal packages. The address was written in English; it looked like it had been posted from abroad. There was no return address, but when I saw the name written in the corner, I was startled. Makoto Tsukishima I thought it might be some kind of prank, but I couldn’t think of anyone who would use Makoto’s name like that. Perplexed, I took the padded envelope to my room and opened it carefully. Inside was a smaller envelope and a memory card in a thin, clear case. I took out the envelope and removed the letter. In a familiar style of handwriting that still lived on deep within my memory were the words Dear Tsubasa Minami. I knew the shape of those lines; Makoto’s handwriting had always been incredibly neat. I remembered how I’d admired it back then, and I was convinced that this letter was from Makoto. But how was that possible when he’d passed away ten years ago? My head was buzzing with questions, but I took a deep breath and read the letter. Dear Tsubasa Minami, It’s been a while. How are you? This is Makoto Tsukishima. You let me join your filmmaking club when we were second-years in senior high school. I was also your boyfriend until I moved overseas. I can’t thank you enough for everything you did for me back then. Ten years have gone by, and I think both of us are well on track following our own paths, so I thought now would be a good time to write to you. I’ve been through a lot ever since I moved overseas, but I’m hanging in there. Whenever I was feeling sad, miserable, or overwhelmed, I’d look back on the days I spent with you in the club. That was the most fun I’ve ever had. Even now, those memories come back to me like it was only yesterday. You might not remember much of it anymore, but the Christmas Eve party where I got to spend time with everyone just before moving away is one of my fondest memories. Thank you so much for welcoming me in as a member of the filmmaking club. I wanted to avoid looking backward, so I haven’t tried to find out what you’ve been up to, but I’m certain you’re letting your talent shine. Even if you’re not in an environment where you can’t make use of your skills now, I want you to know that you were the best director. You were the best leader of the club and the best partner. I hope you’ll forgive me for writing to you from so far away, but I will always be wishing for your success, health, and happiness. There was more to the letter, but that was as much as I could read for the moment. At first, I was surprised. When did Makoto write this? How did he feel putting all this to paper? I felt a pang of nostalgia at his kindness. My eyes grew damp, and I couldn’t make out the words anymore. It struck me that this letter had been written by someone who was about to die. Even though he was dying, he’d still thought about me in the future and left these words for me. Tears fell from my eyes. I tried to steady my breathing, then washed my face and sat back down to read the rest of the letter. It wasn’t long, but it was impossible to get through in one sitting. My vision blurred and tears poured from my eyes, but I took my time to read it all the way through. There was another sheet of paper inside the envelope with an explanation about the memory card. The card looked new; it must have been bought recently. I started up my laptop and put it in. A single video was stored on the memory card. Makoto’s explanation was that he’d stumbled across some videos from high school while organizing some old data on his phone, and he’d made a film out of it—although he’d hardly known what he was doing, he said. I imagined Makoto editing the videos in that room in the hospital. I’d taught him the basics of editing—a fond memory of mine from those days. In his note, he wrote that it was up to me to choose whether to watch it or not. I looked at the data of the file; the time stamp had apparently been tweaked, since it showed a date from several weeks ago. He thought of everything. I chuckled a little and played the video. If I were to give a harsh critique, I would say that it wasn’t really a film. It was more like a mishmash of videos, many of them blurry or wobbly, without anything resembling a script. The scenes changed abruptly, so that only the people who’d been present when the videos were shot would be able to follow the story. And yet, I couldn’t stop my tears from flowing. I saw myself as a high schooler in the movie. There I was, going on a date with Makoto for the very first time, walking beside the railway tracks in the orange glow of sunset, getting excited at the zoo, laughing in a café on our way home from school, smiling under the bright summer sun. That wasn’t all. There were also videos of me filming with everyone, looking so happy—Makoto had probably shot them in secret in between takes. I saw myself as I was back then, when I was having so much fun making films that that was all I wanted to do. Makoto’s movie was coming to an end. I could see how little time was left in the bar under the video. I gazed at the last scene, wishing it didn’t have to end. On the screen, I was sleeping at the desk in the clubroom. The room was dyed the color of sunset. It had probably been sometime during summer break, when Makoto and I had found ourselves alone after filming. The whiteboard on the side was crammed with ideas for the movie we were shooting. I vaguely remembered nodding off after getting tired from all the brainstorming. Makoto, who was taking the video, called out to me. “Minami.” I lifted my head from the desk and looked at the camera with drowsy eyes. “Oh, you’re filming?” “You told me that if you fell asleep, I should take a video of how you react when I wake you up,” he explained sheepishly. “Oh yeah, I remember now.” I laughed. “Do you enjoy making movies?” he asked. I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah. A lot,” I said without a moment’s hesitation, beaming. Then the movie ended. I was pulled back to reality. The video player on my screen had gone black, and I saw my tear-streaked face reflected there. Just a moment ago, I had been the laughing girl in the movie—but the dark screen showed me as I was now, ten years older. A flood of feelings rushed over me, and I broke down in tears. I wasn’t sure why I was crying so much. Was it because I missed Makoto and his kindness? Or because I felt overwhelmed by the love I still felt for him? Was it because I felt ashamed of who I’d become, or frustrated at myself? Was it because I knew that the person who’d made this movie for me was no longer here, that he was lost forever? Or was it all of those things hitting me at once? Some things you lose never come back—it’s painful, but true. That time flew by, cold and swift, waiting for no one. But those weren’t the only feelings the movie left me with. For a while after, I sat there and cried my heart out. I cried until I ran out of tears, and afterward, I felt lighter somehow. When I thought back, I realized that my heart had been dried up; I couldn’t remember shedding a single tear over anything in the last few years. I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest. I started wondering who it could have been that delivered this package to me. But of course, the answer was obvious. There were so few people who could have done it—it had to have been Aoi. I was still good friends with her. The same went for Ena and Ichika. Our relationship hadn’t changed since school, but since we worked in different fields, we hadn’t been able to meet up recently. Not to mention the fact that Ena and Aoi were incredibly busy. I messaged Aoi, asking if we could meet for a chat. She replied a few hours later, saying that she could free up an hour in the early evening on Saturday, so we decided to meet at a café in Tokyo. “Aoi, you were the one who delivered that thing to me, right?” I interrogated her as soon as we sat down and ordered. Aoi looked surprised, but she let out a chuckle. “You got me. Didn’t you even suspect Tsukishima’s parents?” “Not many people can pull off such a painstaking setup. Besides, I thought Makoto might feel a bit bad asking his parents to do something like that. So that leaves you, Aoi.” I thought about Makoto’s parents as I answered. I had been going to see them until around the three-year anniversary of his death. They’d watched the film Makoto had left behind, The Girl Who Dies from a Rare Disease, and they’d encouraged me about my film projects at college. “Fair enough,” Aoi laughed. Our coffee came, and she took a sip. “Just to make it clear, though, I haven’t looked at any of it—not the letter, and not the video, either. Tsukishima just asked me to pass it on to you in ten years’ time, so all I did with the file he gave me was move it to a memory card.” “In ten years’ time, huh…? Did Makoto say anything else?” Aoi’s expression shifted a little to something more solemn. She put her cup back down on the table. “Not when he gave it to me. After that last party, he was unconscious a lot of the time, and I was giving him more space, since I didn’t want to tire him out by visiting too often. He called me up out of the blue to give me that letter for you. But…I did talk to him a bit sometime before that, and he told me he wondered whether you’d become a film director one day.” Aoi sounded reluctant, even though there was no need for her to feel sorry or guilty about it. “Really? He said that…?” “I told him it wasn’t that easy, so who knew. I didn’t know if that was even a goal of yours, and besides, it’s not the sort of profession you can just choose for yourself. Luck plays a big part in it, too. And then there are directors like me, who get by purely on luck and good scripts without any real talent.” Aoi gave a self-deprecating laugh, but I knew that if you looked up her name online, she’d come up as one of the leading young directors of her generation. There was no trace of jealousy or frustration in me; I honestly felt proud of her as a friend. “That’s not true. You do have the talent and the skills, and it’s really impressive what you’ve achieved. You went pro through sheer hard work. You should be proud of that.” “I…only made it because I’m not picky. I know what kind of movies the general public likes, so that’s what I aim for. I can’t make something truly beautiful like you can, Tsubasa.” “I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You’re just tired, aren’t you?” “Maybe. Sorry.” When I asked what she’d been up to lately, Aoi told me that she was working on a few projects as director while also subbing in as a scriptwriter on a commercial film. Ena had also been cast in one of her projects. I felt really happy for the opportunities they were getting, so I made sure to show her how excited I was. Aoi grinned back at me, and we chatted and joked like we were back in high school. When it was time to go, we promised to meet up again soon. Just as we were about to go our separate ways outside the café, Aoi asked me a question. “By the way, Tsubasa—do you ever think about making films again?” I didn’t answer at first. After a while, I said, “I don’t know… I’m not even sure why I used to make movies anymore. What’s the point?” A fake smile was plastered on my face, though I knew I didn’t need to put on any sort of act in front of Aoi. I couldn’t meet her eyes. “There’s no point to anything. Meaning is what you make it,” she said calmly. “What?” I looked at her, startled. Her steady gaze was fixed on me. “A film director I like used to say that. When I heard those words, I thought, ‘Wow, I’ll never be as good as her. And that feeling hasn’t changed, even now.’” That was something I’d told Ena in my second year at junior high—Aoi was quoting my own words back at me. It’s not like I had my own philosophy or anything, but I’d simply said what came into my head. When I was still directing movies, I used to believe that those spontaneous things—things that came out of someone by chance, without planning and forethought—could tell you everything there was to know about that person. Each day slipped by as if I was being carried along by a conveyor belt. It was Monday again, and I went back to my usual routine. As I went about my ordinary days, a few snippets of conversation kept echoing in my head: “He was wondering whether you’d become a film director one day.” “Do you ever think about making films again?” I thought I’d put enough distance between my current self and my old aspirations. I shouldn’t have felt any yearning to go back to the film industry, nor any need to turn my back on it. I even watched commercial blockbusters. Yet deep down I still had it—that desire to live in the world of cinema. At the same time, my mind kept turning back to Makoto’s words. Did he want me to become a director, too? As if in search of the answer, I watched Makoto’s movie over and over again. It was a collage, lovingly assembled, of playful, ordinary scenes of a couple’s time together. At first that was all I saw in it, but the more I watched it, the more I began to notice something else. Back then, my head had been chock-full of movies. They were all I talked about. “What kind of movies do you like, Makoto?” I asked in one clip. “With movies, there’s intention and meaning to every single shot. That’s what I love about it,” I said in another scene. And then there was the last line of the movie: “Yeah. A lot.” One day, it dawned on me—I thought I had an inkling of the message that Makoto had breathed into his movie. It came together with Makoto’s words that Aoi had conveyed, and the meaning of his film began to unfold within me. Could it be that this movie was meant to spur me on? To give me an encouraging push in case I’d tried to become a film director but couldn’t make it? In case I’d given up on cinema? To remind me of my love for the art, ten years ago? I left that day and took advantage of the weekend to go back to my hometown for the first time in a while. It had been several years since I last visited Makoto’s grave. I stared at the stone, asking, “What are you really trying to tell me?” But, of course, he didn’t reply. The living couldn’t speak to the dead, and the dead couldn’t speak to the living. After that, I went to Makoto’s house, taking his letter with me. I’d gotten in touch with his parents beforehand, and they welcomed me with open arms. The main reason I’d come back was to show them what Makoto had written. Once we were all sitting in the living room, I handed them the letter. They leaned closer, reading it together with rapt attention. His mom teared up, and when she’d finished reading it, she dabbed at her eyes and said with a gentle smile, “I was surprised to hear from you at first—I’m so grateful you came all this way to share this with us. Thank you so much. It must’ve been a bother for Hayami, too.” I slowly shook my head. I knew Aoi well; she would never think anything she did for her friends or clubmates was a bother. I’d also brought the memory card with Makoto’s movie. But when his parents found out that it was something he’d made especially for me, they told me it wasn’t for them to see and that they would be content if I kept it to myself as a special memory. Then Makoto’s mom got up and left the room. She came back with two notebooks left behind by Makoto. “Please take them with you, if you’d like—maybe they’ll be useful for your movies.” She held them out to me. She must have thought I’d come to pick them up, just like Makoto had written in his letter. I was about to say, “Actually, I don’t make movies anymore,” but when I saw their warm smiles, the words got stuck in my throat. I didn’t want to burden them by staying too long, so I thanked them again and excused myself before teatime. I’d promised my parents I’d have dinner with them at home. I thought of going straight there, but since I still had some time, I decided to wander around town for a bit. I hadn’t done that in years. I walked to the park where I’d had my first date with Makoto and through the familiar streets where we’d walked together. The general feel of the place was still the same, but in fact, a lot of things had changed since those days. Ten years was a long time. I toyed with the idea of going to the zoo—the one that had come up in Makoto’s movie—but the train line near my parents’ house wouldn’t take me there, and I didn’t have that much time. So I visited our old school instead. Though it was a Saturday, the people at the school kindly let me in when they found out that I was an alum, and I was allowed to walk around the school building as I liked. Memories came flooding back to me from every nook and cranny. Teenage me would’ve whipped out my phone and started filming everything, I thought as I walked past the nurse’s office and the roofed walkway that led to the gym. When the sun began to set, I thanked the school staff and left. The last thing I did was walk to the park near the school. The bench where Makoto and I had sat side by side that winter evening so long ago—it was still there, unchanged. I sat down on it and, after some hesitation, took out Makoto’s notebooks from my bag. There was a Post-it note taped to the cover: “If Tsubasa Minami comes to visit with a letter, please give these notebooks to her. I’d appreciate it if no one looks inside until then.” I carefully opened the first notebook. In it, I found a record of Makoto’s struggles in a kind of diary—how he’d spent his days since he discovered his terminal illness, how he’d felt, things couldn’t reveal even to his parents, including his darkest thoughts. At times his writing was neat and delicate. At other times, he seemed to be spilling out his thoughts in a frenzy. The diary entries became less frequent after a certain point, probably when he started coming to the filmmaking club. But the regular entries began again in August. 8/9 My temperature was low again today. It scared me, so I thought I’d try to write about it here. I’m back in my room at the hospital. I hate it here. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to see Minami. I want to go back to our clubroom. It’s really scary just waiting to black out. I tell myself over and over that I know the drill by now, but I can’t fool myself. I really hope I’ll get used to it soon. Apparently, Makoto had written this on one of the days when he’d worried about losing consciousness. He was venting all of his anxieties on the page. When I came across my name in his writing, tears pricked my eyes. On another day, I saw Aoi’s name, too. 8/21 Hayami said she’d help me. I used to think she was scary, but turns out I was wrong. Everyone’s kind. We’re all kind at heart. The world is so full of kind people, and I don’t want to leave. I want to keep living. I want to meet more people. I want to be a part of their lives and let them be a part of mine. To this disease of mine: Please don’t get in my way. Please let my heart stay kind, too. Always. I didn’t know about all the inner turmoil that Makoto must have been fighting against. But one thing I can say with certainty is that Makoto was always kind, whatever the circumstances. His illness never took that away from him. Don’t worry—in my eyes, you were the kindest person in the world. A shiver ran through me, even though it wasn’t cold. It was hard to keep reading. With a heavy heart, I turned to another page. 9/14 I can’t stand it anymore, so I’m going to vomit everything out here. I hate this disease. There’s no use hating it. It’s fate. Just accept it. But there’s no way I can just let everything go like that. I want to talk with Minami about the future. I want to laugh with her over all kinds of dumb things. I want to waste time without a care in the world. The zoo was fun. I want to go on a weekend date again. I wish I could make promises. 10/23 I’m an idiot. I’m fed up with myself. Even though I’d promised Minami I’d be there, I passed out this morning. I ended up causing a lot of people trouble. I’m sorry, Hayami. I’m sorry, Hayami’s mom. Mom, Dad, I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you sad, so I’m only apologizing here, but I hope you’ll forgive me. 11/29 I quit the club today. I said good-bye to everyone. I said good-bye to Minami. I wanted to hug her tight. I felt like crying, being selfish, and screaming, “I want to stay with you right up until the end.” I’m such an idiot. I should’ve just done that. Hayami told me not to give up on my happiness. She was right. I should’ve done what I wanted. I’m going to die, so what does it matter? I should’ve said that to fate, to God. I should’ve looked them all in the eye and said, “What do I care about what happens after I’m dead? That’s not my problem.” I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe how stupid I am. But it’s OK. Even if I can’t hold her. Even if I can’t stay with her till the end. That’s OK. That’s how it should be. I hope Minami will be happy in the future. I hope her dreams come true. And then, up in heaven, I’ll walk over to this cruel God and say: “See how amazing my girlfriend is?” I’ll never let you take her, though. I won’t let you bring her up here until she’s old and gray. 2/15 No pain, no bitterness, no regrets. I feel light. I haven’t had to scribble in this dark notebook as much since I started spending time with Minami. But having this notebook helped me for sure. Thank you. That was the final entry of Makoto’s diary. February 15—it was several weeks after the “Christmas Eve” party, the night we saw each other for the last time. The next time he lost consciousness after that, Makoto’s parents had adjusted the date on his phone back, so the date on this entry must be the real one. I was so glad to read, in his own words, that he’d really had no regrets at the end. There was more in the notebook, though—a message addressed to me after the last diary entry: Dear Tsubasa Minami, I was actually going to throw out this notebook. But when I look back at it now, it’s a record of the truth about my life and an account of how one person really felt after finding out he was dying. I thought that maybe, in ten years, when you’ve moved on and I’ve become just a memory from your past, I might pass this on to you so you can make use of it. So I’ve decided to leave it behind. I guess you know by now that I’m dead. I’m sorry I lied to you. And more than anything else, thank you. Thank you for everything. I used to think I’d be alone until I died. That I was just going to live out my life in quiet isolation. But right now, I’m not alone. I’m surrounded by photos, videos, and memories. This would never have happened if not for you, Tsubasa. Thank you with all my heart. I better wrap this up—I shouldn’t keep rambling on forever. I’ve been thinking for a long time about what would be good to leave behind as my last words. I haven’t come up with anything yet, though, so I’ll think of something and write it down before I die. I hope you won’t laugh, even if it’s not such a great message. I couldn’t move for a moment—his last words were here, in this notebook. My feelings were so fragile now that a tiny nudge would have sent me bursting into tears. But I steadied my breathing and looked down at the last sentence on the page. A nostalgic breeze swept through my heart—gentle, warm, and somehow ephemeral… I am, and always will be, your biggest fan. At some point, the sun had gone down, and the light from the street lamp was falling across the page. Not for the first time in this spot, raindrops pattered down. I wiped away my tears so that the notebook wouldn’t get wet. But the rain wouldn’t stop; it kept pouring from my eyes. I waited until I calmed down. I dried my face and hands with a handkerchief, sniffling. Then, I picked up the other notebook Makoto’s mom had given me. Apparently, this one had been for writing down things Makoto wanted to do before he died. I opened the notebook filled with his wishes. Tell Tsubasa Minami how I feel I found my name on the page. This was probably the starting point of everything between us. Closing my eyes and listening, I felt as if I could hear Makoto’s gentle voice. His face from that particular day came back to me, how he looked nervous as he told me, “To tell you the truth, I like you, Minami. Uh, but it’s not like I want to go out with you—more like I’m a fan…” Feelings welled up inside me, and tears once again traced my cheeks. When I opened my eyes, stars were glimmering above me across the deep night sky. If someone who knew more about stars than I did looked up at them, the constellations would have told silent stories. The past drew me in. I remembered what Makoto had told me that day, right in the same spot I sat now. How the stars we see in the sky are the light from the past. Gazing at the glittering night sky, I thought long and hard about the meaning behind Makoto’s movie. What had he meant with it? What message did he want to give me? I thought I would know for sure if I read his letter and notebooks, but I still had no definite answer. Maybe it wasn’t meant to have a specific meaning in the first place. But if that was true…was I allowed to find my own meaning, in the way of a true cinephile? Could I think of his movie as Makoto cheering me on to light that fire in me? If the light from the stars shone on us from all those years in the past, could I think of Makoto’s movie as a glimmering star just for me—a light that reached me after ten years—as his final gift? So that I wouldn’t forget the part of myself that was in love with cinema and forget about the past…? Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face again. It was the first time I’d cried so much. It felt so cathartic. These were tears I could shed only because I’d burned out before I could fulfill my dream—and because now I knew that even if I’d failed once, I could always try again, however many times I wanted. Sometimes, you live through something that makes you think, If this were a movie, maybe the credits would roll here—but life goes on. After all these years, I still see life that way. For me, that climactic scene was the last night I spent with Makoto. We added splashes of color to the end of Makoto’s life. If it had been a movie, the four of us would’ve watched his car drive off into the distance, and then the credits would’ve appeared. Fade to black. After that, people had to go back to reality. They might take something away from the film, but no matter how much they felt like lingering, they had to get up from their seats and return to their daily lives. I wiped my tears and stood up—it was time I returned to my daily life as well. It was time I started running again toward my dream. With everything I’d been through already, I had nothing to fear. What kept me going, more than anything else, was that when I looked up, there was always a light shining above me—a guiding star that illuminated the way for people who were lost or who’d broken down before achieving their dreams. But I wasn’t lost anymore. I lived my life in a world in which the credits had already rolled. I began to weave a new story: the story of a woman who strives to fulfill her dream of becoming a professional film director. It went without saying, but the path ahead would be challenging. No life left you unscathed. I went back into the film industry. I threw myself into working as an assistant director at my old company. Though the people in my life worried about me, I chased after my dream. Over and over again, I stumbled and fell flat on my face. There were times when I couldn’t take another step forward, weighed down by fatigue, times I wavered, not knowing what lay beyond. Despite everything, I kept going. And as long as you keep walking, you’ll get somewhere eventually. My chance came when I was twenty-nine. The film project that I’d been preparing over several years got picked up, and now I had the funds to make it happen. I shot it with professional actors. Though the distribution was limited to tiny hole-in-the-wall theaters, and it didn’t keep running for very long, I was able to bring out my film as a commercial piece. It wasn’t as though my professional directorial debut was met with critical acclaim, but it was still received pretty well. It wasn’t a major hit, but people heard about it by word of mouth and came to see it. That was enough for me. On the last day of the film’s run in theaters, I went to a mini theater in Tokyo around sunset and watched the whole story as a member of the audience. I gazed up at the screen as the credits rolled. A LIGHT FROM THE PAST Cast and Staff I had turned Makoto’s life into a movie. It was a project I’d developed, with permission from Makoto’s parents, when I’d seen a call for submissions for films based on true stories. It was Makoto who motivated me to take another shot at filmmaking. So naturally, I wanted my first professional piece as a director to be a film about him. This was my way of thanking him for turning me into a movie all those years ago, my way of turning Makoto’s words in his letter into reality. Even if you’re not in an environment where you can make use of your talent now, I want you to know that you were the best director. You were the best leader of the club and the best partner. I hope you’ll forgive me for writing to you from so far away, but I will always be wishing for your success, health, and happiness. I’d read that letter so many times by now. I cast my mind back to the rest of Makoto’s message, in which he’d left me a gift—the gift of his own life and his secret. I wasn’t sure whether I should write the rest of this letter, but I’ve made up my mind to tell you now. When we were in senior high, there was something I was hiding from you. If you’re still making movies now, and if you ever find yourself in need of ideas or a story, please feel free to use my secret. If you take this letter to my parents, they should tell you the whole story. I’m embarrassed to show you, but there’s also a notebook where I used to write down how I felt in my darkest moments. The contents might be pretty banal, but if it’s useful to you in some way, even just a little, that would make me happy. Even though I could only be a part of the club for about half a year, and I was away a lot of that time, I loved seeing how excited you got when you were making films. I will always treasure those times with you when we made movies together. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for making my life feel so full. For me, you were light itself. The light of life and the light of hope. Be well. I wish you the very best for the future. Good-bye. Makoto Tsukishima The credits came to an end, and the lights went on in the theater. I stayed in my seat until I was the last one in the room. Eventually, I got up. Just before I stepped out of the theater, I turned around to face the screen and bowed deeply. Night had fallen outside. The sky stretched overhead with a depth that reminded me of that night so long ago. A small group was waiting for me in front of the theater: Ena, who’d made a cameo appearance as the school nurse in my movie; Ichika, who’d often brought snacks and refreshments for us while we were filming and also appeared as an extra; and Aoi, who’d written the screenplay with me. “Welcome back,” Aoi said, grinning. “You’re my hero.” “They say a hero always arrives late… Is this you trying to tell me I’m late?” I joked, trying to hide the fact that I was tearing up. “Well, you’ve got a point. You did take a hell of a long time to get here,” Aoi replied, catching my drift. I grinned back at her. “Tell me about it. I was getting tired of waiting,” Ena chimed in, lightening the mood. “You know I’ve been waiting for ages to get cast in your movie, Tsubasa.” But Ena had never been good at holding back her tears. She was honest with her own feelings; she had wept openly when she’d reunited with her mom all those years ago, as well as at Makoto’s funeral. Even now, there was the faint gleam of tears in her eyes. “I’m really glad, though,” Ichika said. She had grown up into a calm, compassionate woman. “You look full of life these days. Back when you quit your job and switched careers, you looked pretty worn out.” I gazed at my friend, as small and caring as ever. “You haven’t changed a bit, Ichika—you’ve always been so kindhearted. And you’re even great at cooking.” “Huh? What’re you bringing that up for now, Tsubasa?” she asked. “Oh, nothing. It’s just a mystery why you’re still single,” I said casually. “E-editors are super busy!” she protested, pouting like a child. “Sorry, I know.” “Oh, burn!” Ena said with a laugh. Aoi watched us all with a warm smile. One story had come to an end, credits had rolled, the screen had faded to black. And after that, life had gone on. But now, I knew it wasn’t quite like that. Life didn’t just go on. Life began anew. It could be cruel at times, but we all had to start a new story even as we held on to our memories of the past. What kind of story will I start now? I wondered as the four of us walked down the street. What kind of film will I make? Since it was the last day of my film’s run in theaters, the three of them had invited me out for dinner as a little celebration. On the way to the restaurant, I looked up at the stars glimmering across the sky. I gazed at the shimmering lights in silence. I was sure that I would stumble a lot throughout the course of my life. There would be times when I hit a wall or shed tears of frustration. Even so, I could say with confidence that I would be all right, come what may. Because the stars would always be there for me in the night sky. Because I had countless memories that I would always hold dear in my heart. The light from the past would shine brightly in the sky and inside me, never to be extinguished.