“Soredemo tomorrow,” I said. “And the day after. And the day after that.”
“Weird time to buy pudding,” he replied, glancing at my basket.
We stood there in the noodle aisle for twenty minutes, talking about nothing — the best flavor of ice cream (he said vanilla, I said you’re wrong, it’s matcha ), whether pigeons have feelings (he argued yes, I argued they’re government drones), and why vending machines look sadder at night. soredemo ashita kareshi
“It means ‘and yet.’ Like, ‘I know the risks. And yet, I want to try.’”
No more guessing. No more waiting. No more “maybe he’ll change.” “Soredemo tomorrow,” I said
No checking if he’s seen my story. Rule 2: No imagining future wedding scenes with strangers. Rule 3: No romanticizing loneliness as tragedy.
And yet — soredemo .
I didn’t answer. Because the truth was too embarrassing: I was afraid of being forgotten. Of giving someone my best days and becoming nothing but a “that one girl I used to date” in their memory.