In Minanagi City, twenty-eight-year-old Amakasu Minato has a habit: the more it hurts, the more he smiles. A bad fall down the stairs lands him in Seiryo-kai Minanagi General Hospital with a fractured tibia—and a roommate's worth of nosy elderly men, a cheerful nurse named Miura Saya who sees through his armor, and an orthopedist who strips it off entirely.
"Don't force yourself to smile. If it hurts, say it hurts."
Dr. Meijo Kei is handsome, blunt, and unnervingly perceptive. He notices the s
The Discharge Day Signal - The day I throw away my crutches—a call that breaks the rules, and a promise six months from now
Morning light washed the windows of the orthopedics ward on the fourth floor in white.
In a private room in the east wing, Amakasu Minato was packing the last of his things. He pushed folded clothes into the carry bag spread open on the bed. The paper bag Shino had brought yesterday was already empty. The fridge was empty, the table was empty—nothing left.
(Five weeks, huh.)
Outside the window, the Minagi River sparkled, catching the morning sun. The roofs of the Old Castle Street shopping arcade stretched in rows, and beyond them, the green of Minagi Castle Ruins Park was just barely visible.
Minato walked to the window. A thin brace wrapped his right leg. His crutches still leaned against the side of the bed.
Last night, Meijo Kei had visited his room under the pretext of checking his IV. The two of them had gazed at the night view outside the window, saying little. They hadn't really talked about anything. And yet, somehow, that silence hadn't been painful.
"Please don't come to see me off tomorrow."
When Minato said that, Meijo had opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something—then closed it. His face had looked bitter, like he was swallowing something down.
(I don't have the confidence to say goodbye with a smile.)
That was the real reason he'd asked not to be seen off. He didn't think he could stand in front of Meijo and say the word "bye" with a smile on his face.
He glanced at the crutches beside the bed. They'd been his partners ever since he was admitted. At first he couldn't handle them properly and scraped up his underarms. Every rehab session, he'd walked the hallway back and forth with them.
Minato picked up the crutches. The cold of the metal seeped into his palms. The feel of the grips had grown familiar in his hands.
He laid the crutches on the bed.
Gently.
As if leaving something behind.
And then, on his own two feet, he stood.
A faint weight settled into his right leg. There was no pain. But deep in the bone, something still lingered—a faint sense of unease.
Minato took a step. The floor supported the sole of his foot. A second step. A third. Awkward. But he was walking, unmistakably, on his own feet.
He gripped the handle of the carry bag. He slung his familiar backpack over his shoulder. He opened the door of the room. The smell of disinfectant drifted through the hallway. Without looking back even once, Minato stepped out into the corridor.
——
In front of the nurses' station, Miura Saya was sorting charts, having just finished the night-shift handover. Her chestnut hair was loosely gathered at the back, and her round brown eyes followed the documents in her hands.
Yesterday, she'd given Minato a message card. A short card that said only, *Take care of yourself after discharge.* There was so much more she'd wanted to write. But caught between her position as a nurse and her feelings as a friend, she'd chosen her words carefully.
When Minato had first been admitted, he'd hidden his pain behind jokes and always smiled. But Saya had sensed right away that there was something behind that smile. And Meijo had been the first to see through Minato's lies.
"You don't have to force yourself to smile."
She remembered how Minato's smile had frozen for an instant when Meijo said that. From that day on, something had been born between the two of them. Across the line dividing doctor and patient, a frustrating distance that seemed about to close but never quite did.
*Tap, tap*—the sound of footsteps came down the hallway.
Saya looked up.
Minato was walking toward her. Without crutches. On his own two feet. There was still a slight favoring of his right leg. But his gait was completely different from when he'd been admitted.
Minato passed in front of the nurses' station.
"Saya-san, thank you for everything."
Minato stopped, and smiled at Saya. Smiling. But the rims of his eyes were a little red.
"Minato-san, take care of yourself. Don't push too hard."
"Saya-san, you told me that yesterday too. I'm fine—I'm tough as nails."
"I know you're tough. But if you break a bone again, this time *I'll* be the one yelling at you."
"Scary. Okay, I'll be careful not to break anything."
With that, Minato started walking again. Saya watched his back as he went.
——
Meijo Kei sat at his desk in the doctors' office, eyes fixed on a document. The final check of a discharge summary. He went over it character by character.
(This is the last of it.)
He set down his pen. Minato was being discharged. Today, he would leave this hospital.
*Please don't come to see me off tomorrow.*
He'd repeated those words in his head over and over. He understood how Minato felt. No confidence to part with a smile. Not wanting his tearful face to be seen. It was Minato's pride—and Minato's kindness, too.
As a doctor, he respected his patient's wishes. That had always been Meijo's creed.
But more than that—
(I haven't told him anything.)
Deep in his chest, something throbbed with a dull ache.
Contact after discharge was forbidden. The workplace regulations stated it plainly: "Personal contact with patients with whom a treatment relationship existed is prohibited for six months after the conclusion of treatment." The Minagi City Medical Association guidelines set the same restriction.
(Six months.)
Half a year. Two seasons would change. How would Minato's rehab progress in that time? His work, his life, his smile—
(I won't be able to know any of it.)
Once the treatment relationship ended, a patient went back to being a stranger. That was the rule of this world. Meijo had upheld that rule countless times before.
(Just this once—)
He clenched his fist. He remembered five years ago. When he was a young doctor. He'd nearly crossed the line with a patient. In the end, he'd hurt the patient, and hurt himself too. That regret had made him who he was now. Draw a line with patients. It was a resolve meant to protect himself—and to protect them.
No answer came.
But his body was already moving. Meijo stood. He slid his pen into the pocket of his white coat.
(I should obey his request not to see him off.)
His head understood that. But his feet were already carrying him toward the door of the office.
——
Minato stood in front of the elevator. He pressed the button. His finger paused for just a moment over it.
(This is the end.)
His life in this hospital was ending. The pain, the anxiety, the smiles, the tears.
(I wish I could have said something to him, at the very end.)
But he didn't know what to say. *Thank you for everything* wasn't enough. Something more. But it wouldn't take shape as words.
He pressed the button. The elevator display showed the floor numbers. It would be here soon.
That was when it happened.
"Amakasu-san!"
A voice rang out through the hallway. Minato's body gave a start.
He turned. From the far end of the corridor, Meijo was walking toward him. The hem of his white coat swayed with each step. His narrow black eyes were fixed straight on Minato. They weren't the eyes of the usual composed doctor.
*Thump, thump*—his heart thrashed.
Meijo stood before Minato. His breathing was slightly ragged. Had he run here? The ever-efficient Meijo, out of breath.
"Amakasu-san."
A low voice. But it trembled, just barely.
"...Doctor, I told you not to come see me off."
Minato spoke in a shaking voice.
"I know."
The answer was short.
"But there's something I absolutely have to say."
Meijo looked straight into Minato's eyes. Minato looked back. Those eyes were trying desperately to convey something.
Meijo lowered his gaze once. Then he looked at Minato's eyes again.
"Six months from now—let's meet here again."
Minato's breath stopped.
"Not as a patient and a doctor. As one person to another."
Meijo's voice was quiet. But the words drove deep into Minato's chest.
Minato's eyes went wide. Tears welled up. He bit his lip. He fought desperately to hold them back.
But it was no use. Tears spilled from Minato's eyes and fell.
"...That's not fair, Doctor."
He said it without even trying to wipe his tears.
"If you say something like that, how am I supposed to get through the next six months?"
His voice was shaking.
"I was going to try to forget about you. But if you say 'six months from now,' how could I possibly forget?"
Crying, he laughed. Through his tear-blurred vision, Meijo's face wavered.
"You don't have to forget."
Meijo said it quietly.
"I won't forget either."
"Doctor, that's playing dirty."
He said it while wiping his tears.
"I'm glad I got to meet you."
His voice was a mess with tears. But those words were Minato's true feelings.
Hearing them, Meijo smiled faintly. The corners of his mouth loosened, just a little.
"...Yeah."
"Six months from now. Here. Without fail."
"Promise me."
"Yeah. It's a promise."
Meijo nodded firmly. The two of them didn't touch hands. And yet, the distance between them had unmistakably shrunk.
——
Minato got on the elevator. The doors closed. Meijo's figure disappeared from view.
Alone in the elevator, Minato cried.
(He was so cool, the doctor.)
(Saying something like that, at the very, very end.)
(I really can't compete with him.)
He wiped his tears and smiled.
——
Meijo watched the elevator carrying Minato descend, floor by floor.
A sensation spread through his chest, as if a hole had opened there. Lonely. To feel lonely seeing a patient off—perhaps that disqualified him as a doctor. But that feeling unmistakably existed.
He put his hand in his white coat pocket. His fingertips touched something. What he pulled out was a single page cut from a sketchbook. On it, his own profile was drawn in pencil. Something Minato had drawn during his stay. When had he slipped it into Meijo's pocket?
Meijo gazed at the sketch.
Then he put it back in his pocket. He started walking. Toward the emergency stairwell.
——
The rooftop. An off-limits area. But the night-shift staff sometimes used it to catch their breath.
Morning light illuminated the city. The Minagi River glittered. In the distance, the green of Minagi Castle Ruins Park was visible.
Meijo took the sketchbook page from his pocket. The sketch of his profile that Minato had drawn. He traced it with his finger.
(*You don't have to smile*—that's what I told him.)
He was remembering the day they first met.
"Doctor, you're handsome. This'll make hospital life fun."
Minato had said that and laughed. Meijo had known immediately that the smile was fake.
"You don't have to force yourself to smile."
When he said that, Minato's smile had frozen for an instant. From that moment on, he'd watched Minato. Hiding pain behind a smile. Carrying anxiety so heavy he really wanted to cry. Unable to show anyone his true feelings.
(But I could only ever approach him as a doctor.)
He stroked the sketch gently. A small smile rose to his lips.
(Six months from now, I'll meet him—not as a doctor, but as one person.)
The wind stirred Meijo's white coat.
Six months was a long time. But now, that length felt like hope.
——
Minato had returned to his apartment. His own room, for the first time in five weeks. The air was a little stale. He opened the window. The outside air flowed in.
He took a single sheet of paper from his backpack. The rehab plan Meijo had given him. Meijo's handwriting was meticulous and easy to read. Minato taped the paper to the wall. He fixed all four corners firmly with tape.
It felt as though Meijo's feelings for him were packed into every character.
He opened the fridge. Inside was a note.
*Make sure you eat properly. I've left some pre-made meals in the freezer. —Shino*
It was Shino's handwriting. In the freezer, several containers of food were lined up.
He looked at the calendar hanging on the living-room wall. He picked up a pen. From the date of his discharge, he traced his finger to the date six months later. He drew a circle around it.
(On this day, I'm going to see him.)
He looked a
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