oursolaces

eternal yesterday is not about ghosts or miracles—it's about the unbearable gentleness of holding someone who is slipping away, slowly, lovingly, and completely. it is about youth wrapped in the warmth of first love, and the cold that follows after.

koichi and michan love each other with the quiet certainty only teenagers know—a kind of love untouched by shame, unafraid of truth. they fall not with fireworks, but with open palms and tender eyes. it's all so soft—until it begins to end.

koichi dies. and then he doesn't

he comes back, not fully alive, not fully gone—a miracle that feels more like a wound. he smiles, he talks, he stays. but with every passing day, the world forgets him. only michan remembers. only michan holds on.

and what is grief if not the act of remembering when no one else will?

there is something devastating in their devotion—not in tragedy, but in kindness. koichi loves michan enough to stay. michan loves koichi enough to let him go. this is a story where love is not proven by how long you hold on, but by how gently you release what was never yours to keep.

their story isn't fair. it isn't easy. but it's full of a kind of purity that hurts—the kind that only youth and first love can create. that ache of knowing you've found something real, and still having to say goodbye.

in the end, eternal yesterday is a love poem disguised as a ghost story. a soft ache that lingers in the chest. a reminder that sometimes love, no matter how brief or broken, is still real. still worth remembering.

they were just boys. but to each other, they were everything.