15. Temples For Grief
Temples For Grief
Natalia
Ishould be vibrating with inspiration in a place like this, the kind of location influencers would sell their souls to shoot content in. Sensō-ji, Tokyo’s oldest Buddhist temple, is the kind of place people come to for blessings, fortune slips, and quiet reflection.
Rafe suggested it, he’s sweet like that, overly thoughtful sometimes, the kind of man who believes beauty and tradition might soften a wound. Kasia lit up at the idea, something eased in her posture like she needed it. I didn’t want to be the one who ruined the moment for her, so I said yes.
I shouldn’t have.
All I want to do is grab a bottle of vodka and go stand in a mechanic's shop.
Smell the grease, the oil, the way Piotr always smelled after he finished work and gave me the biggest hugs.
I'd complain, of course, but I loved them anyway.
Everything beautiful about this place makes me feel ugly on the inside, like I'm broken, permanently.
The date on the calendar burns behind my eyes.
A year today and no amount of temples, sightseeing or polite grief rituals are going to make that feel easier.
The temple is stunning with its long red beams, curling incense and a sky that looks close enough to touch, but I barely see any of it. Every tourist clicking a photo feels like noise, each whispered prayer an intrusion. Even the steps I take feel like walking on someone else’s grief.
Kasia stands in front of the incense burner with her hands folded, eyes closed.
It makes sense; she carries her emotions like they’re sacred objects.
She feels everything in such careful, private ways.
I don’t, I lock mine down until they explode or find a practical way to express them.
Things that remind me he was real, alive.
Rafe lingers beside her with his shoulder touching hers, silent in a way that means he’s trying. He keeps glancing at me like he’s checking for cracks. It annoys me even though he’s doing what he thinks Piotr would want: taking care of his sisters.
I shove my phone deeper into my pocket because the only thing I want to do is message Kiri.
Not to talk about Piotr, nothing deep. Just to not feel alone in my skin for five minutes.
But I don’t do it. He’s the one who insisted on distance.
He’s the one who said we needed to be friends, or whatever the hell he decided.
I’m not giving him access to the softest parts of me when he keeps pretending he’s not already in them.
I cross my arms and fidget with my sleeve. Rafe watches me again, brows drawn.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“I’m fine.” It comes out harsh.
Kasia opens one eye, sensing the snap before the echo even fades.
Rafe tries again, gentler.
“We don’t have to stay long.”
“I said, I’m fine,” I mutter, staring at the gate instead of him. He nods slowly, accepting the lie because what else can he do, but the guilt hits me anyway.
Kasia steps close and slips her arm around my waist.
“Nat… it’s okay if—” Something in me snaps, worn thin by the emotions that keep trying to leak from my eyes.
“If we wanted to mourn Piotr,” I blurt, my voice loud and brittle, “we’d get Polish vodka and blast Iron Maiden or Farba, not hang around temples pretending fancy incense fixes anything. He'd fucking hate this. Can we just go?”
Silence. Kasia flinches, Rafe’s jaw tightens.
The moment is ugly, unkind, and it’s mine.
My fault.
Before either of them can respond, I turn away, pretending the sudden sting behind my eyes is jet lag. I can feel Rafe’s hurt, Kasia’s disappointment. I know what this temple means to them, but grief feels like broken glass scraping down my throat and I want out.
We leave early.
The guilt settles heavy as I charge ahead through Nakamise Street, leaving them behind me, ignoring the destruction I’ve caused.
We entered the temple as what felt like pieces of a family.
Now we’re just three people wandering through grief in the middle of Tokyo, each pretending not to notice the distance between us.
By the time we get to dinner, I’m almost normal again, or at least better at pretending.
Tokyo neon buzzes outside the window while menus clatter against the incredibly long table.
Tonight promises to be loud and relentlessly chaotic if the state of everyone is anything to go by when I arrive, the exact kind of distraction I need.
Until the question of seating is addressed. I head toward the empty chair beside Kiri, the only chair I actually want, when he pulls Rithy into it. There's nothing subtle or smooth about it. It's the most obvious rejection on earth.
“Sit with Freja,” he murmurs without looking at me.
Heat floods my chest. Fury mixed with leftover desire, something tangled and cutting.
Fine. If he wants space, he can have a god damn galaxy.
Freja practically squeals when I sit beside her, full of Scandinavian mischief and confidence, already chattering about the menu like we’ve been best friends for years.
Across the table, Rithy shoots Kiri a look that’s equal parts bewildered and amused.
Ronan cheers when the sake arrives. Rafe keeps glancing between me and Kiri like he’s waiting for a bomb to explode in slow motion.
Kiri doesn’t look at me once. Signe slides into the seat on my other side.
Her glossy hair is swept back, tattoos peeking from under a white tank, a blazer thrown carelessly over her shoulders.
When she smiles at me, it feels like being caught in a spotlight.
Kasia once called her “dangerously charismatic.” Now I understand why.
“Well,” she says with flirtation dripping off every syllable, eyes sweeping down my dress and back up, “that dress. It’s definitely doing things.”
I choke slightly on my water. “Hopefully nothing criminal.”
Signe’s grin widens, slow and wolfish. “Oh, if it were criminal, I’d only be more interested.” She taps her fingers lightly against the back of my chair, leaning in just enough to make my pulse skip. “It’s my whole manifesto, you know.”
I raise a brow, pretending to be unaffected. “What manifesto is that?”
She shrugs one shoulder, eyes glinting. “Be gay. Do crimes. Especially if those crimes involve you.”
A blush hits me, sudden and mortifying. I’m not easily flustered, but Signe has that honey-dipped charm that makes you wonder if she’s already imagining you naked.
Across the table, Kiri finally looks up.
His gaze lands first on Signe’s hand resting on my chair, then on her arm brushing mine, then on my face heating even more when she leans in to whisper something about my earrings.
Something flares in his expression. Possessiveness, dark and intense, flickering like a struck match. Under it, something that hints at arousal even though he’s trying so hard to suppress it. He looks away immediately, jaw tightening, and pushes his chair back so fast it scrapes.
“Excuse me,” he mutters as he stands.
Everyone looks up, confused. Rithy mouths, What?
But Kiri doesn’t answer. He’s already weaving through the empty tables and chairs in our private dining area, heading straight for the bathroom.
My heart jumps, for the first time since the temple, I’m not angry or hurt.
I’m aware, in a very inconvenient and heated way, that something I did got to him. That he cares.
That he feels this dangerous, messy thing as intensely as I do.
The hallway between the bathrooms is narrow and dim, music drifting from the kitchen.
The air is coated in steam, warm and humid against my skin.
I’m halfway to the ladies’ room when Kiri steps out of the men’s with his head down, shaking water off his hands like he’s trying to get rid of whatever thought just destroyed him.
Perfect.
“What the hell was that?” I snap, not bothering to lower my voice. My patience is paper-thin.
The words hit him before he even sees me. He startles, then covers it so quickly it would be impressive if it didn’t piss me off. He leans one shoulder against the wall like he’s the calmest man alive, like the thud of his heartbeat isn’t trying to fight its way out of his throat.
“What was what?” he replies, aiming for something nonchalant.
I glare back at him, long enough that his mask slips and he swallows.
His eyes linger along my face, my mouth, the neckline of my dress, then yank away like looking directly at me might actually kill him.
He drags a hand over the back of his neck, jaw tight, skin flushed from something that has nothing to do with the steam.
“The idea of being friends was to protect you from this world,” he mutters. “Not for you to just jump into bed with another musician.”
I cross my arms, slow and pointed. Letting him feel every ounce of restraint scraping under my skin.
“I’m sorry, did someone protect my sister? Her and Rafe are so happy it’s gross, existing in this terrible world you think I need saving from.” He flinches, barely, but I see it. I step closer. “You're just jealous, that's all this is.”
He scoffs, the kind of scoff men use when they’re caught and cornered.
“Whatever.” He looks down, then looks up. He checks behind us like he’s hoping someone will appear and save him from me. Then he starts drumming against the wall, restless, like he’s trying to burn the feeling out through his fingers. Finally, he meets my eyes.
“You know what?” he says, voice tight. “She’s your age, no messy past. I bet they’d all fucking approve. Go for it. Knock yourself out.”
I push off the opposite wall, arms still crossed, stepping right into his space. “You’re a bad liar. Did you know that?”
He steps into me too, two magnets pretending they’re not already seconds from collision.
“No, I mean it,” he says, mouth twisting. “A double wedding? Fuck, the fans would eat that shit up.”