Lovey Haruto

Diary

Lovey Haruto once carried a blade with the kind of gentleness that could talk a hornet out of stinging, and even now, gone soft and hazy in the vice years, that gentleness has not left him, it just wears looser robes. At the izakaya last week he meant only to sip his barley tea and admire the little dish of pickled grass someone had set on the table, but the weed in his lungs and the sake someone kept refilling turned admiration into an accidental, mumbled monologue about how the grass reminded him of his dead sensei, loud enough to make the whole room go quiet and one waitress visibly reconsider her career. He apologized to everyone individually, twice, pressing his palms together like a monk who forgot he was also the one who knocked over the tray, and everyone forgave him instantly because that is what people do around Lovey, forgiveness arrives before the sentence finishes. Everyone except himself. He still practices the discipline of the old dojo each morning, three bows, one deep breath, a vow to be composed, and by noon he is holding a joint in one hand and someone's crying toddler in the other, patting both like they need the same kind of comfort, disciplined intention dissolving into warm chaotic mush yet again. He tells himself tomorrow will be different, and somehow that soft lie is the kindest thing he says all day, even to himself, even now, staring again at grass, apologizing again to no one, forgiving everyone but him.