murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

I picked up my clothes and dressed. The chest of my shirt was still
damp and chilly. It had Naoko's smell. On the notepad lying on the
desk I wrote: I'd like to have a good long talk with you once you've
calmed down. Please call me soon. Happy
Birthday. I took one last look at Naoko's shoulder, stepped outside and
quietly shut the door.
No call came even after a week had passed. Naoko's house had no
system for calling people to the phone, and so on Sunday morning I
took the train out to Kokubunji. She wasn't there, and her name had
been removed from the door. The windows and storm shutters were
closed tight. The manager told me that Naoko had moved out three
days earlier. He had no idea where she had moved to.
I went back to the dorm and wrote Naoko a long letter addressed to
her home in Kobe. Wherever she was, they would forward it to her at
least.
I gave her an honest account of my feelings. There was a lot I still
didn't understand, I said, and though I was trying hard to understand, it
would take time. Where I would be once that time had gone by, it was
impossible for me to say now, which is why it was impossible for me
to make promises or demands, or to set down pretty words. For one
thing, we knew too little of each other. If, however, she would grant
me the time, I would give it my best effort, and the two of us would
come to know each other better. In any case, I wanted to see her again
and have a good long talk. When I lost Kizuki, I lost the one person to
whom I could speak honestly of my feelings, and I imagined it had
been the same for Naoko. She and I had needed each other more than
either of us knew. Which was no doubt why our relationship had taken
such a major detour and become, in a sense, warped. I probably
should not have done what I did, and yet I believe that it was all I
could do. The warmth and closeness I felt for you at that moment was
something I have never experienced before. I need you to answer this
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