Buying You on the Day You Were to Die by Shiki Narito

Author:Shiki Narito [NARITO, SHIKI]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: J-Novel Club
Published: 2025-12-22T00:00:00+00:00

The dinner he got for me that night was as lavish as what you’d have for Christmas. Hamburg steak, cream stew, and a whole cake just for the two of us.

We’d celebrated the same way last year.

I probably should have been grateful for all the effort he put into my birthday, but it only made me feel ill at ease. I found it far too excessive. Last year—or maybe it was two years ago—I’d told him that he didn’t need to go to such lengths for me and that it wasn’t worth it. He’d stared at me, mouth agape.

This must have been what a normal birthday looked like to him. Before I’d entered this world, most years I hadn’t received a single present.

Remembering this difference made me miserable, and today it was more intense than usual.

“Happy twentieth birthday, Sacchan.”

With an impossibly joyous smile, he handed me a small gift-wrapped box. Why did he look so happy when he wasn’t the one receiving it?

After I thanked him and opened it, I found an expensive-looking wallet in a fancy box.

“I know you’d never splurge on a nice one, Sacchan.”

Just as I had come to know him, he seemed to have a perfect grasp of me too. He was right—I’d never thought of buying a nice wallet. I didn’t understand the point of spending money on something that was supposed to hold it.

“...Thanks.”

Celebrating the day I was born never really made sense to me. Especially since it was supposed to be celebrated by the people who raised you.

“Today? No, should I?”

My father couldn’t be bothered to remember my birthday. He deserved to wade through guilt for that—for things turning out the way they did and for how he made me feel.

I wanted to spite him, wanted him to know it was all his fault, but all this amounted to hurting me in the end. Of course he wouldn’t remember my birthday. I was stupid for assuming he might.

He had called himself my “old man.” I was his only son. My mother had been his only wife. If I’d asked my mom whether she loved us, what would she have said? That she did, I’m sure.

I hated my birthday. It made me think about when I was born. Had that day ever been a source of happiness for my parents?

I had a hard time wrapping my head around the concept of love. Had my father really loved my mother? Had she really loved him?

Had anyone ever loved me?

Love wasn’t measured in words but by actions. Then didn’t that mean my father had never shown me and my mother any love?

Compared to my father’s broken, fictitious love, my “friend’s” incomprehensible words and actions both seemed much closer to what love was supposed to be. He always looked at me with the utmost joy, as he was doing right now. This was normal for him. Seeing him like that, I suddenly felt horrible.

I had let him get too close to such ugliness. He deserved only the most beautiful things in life.

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