Haruki Murakami - Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage
‘I understand how you feel,’ Sara said, with her eyes narrowed. ‘But even if it ended badly, and you were hurt, I think it was a good thing for you to have met them. It’s not very often that people become that close. And when you think of five people having that sort of connection, well, it’s nothing short of miraculous.’
‘I agree. It was kind of a miracle. And I do think it was a good thing for me that it happened,’ Tsukuru said. ‘But that made the shock all the worse when the connection was gone — or snatched from me, I should say. The feeling of loss, the isolation … Those words don’t come even close to expressing how awful it felt.’
‘But more than sixteen years have passed. You’re an adult now, in your late thirties. The pain may have been terrible back then but isn’t it time to finally get over it?’
‘Get over it,’ Tsukuru repeated. ‘What exactly do you mean?’
Sara rested her hands on the table, spreading her ten fingers apart slightly. She wore a ring on the little finger of her left hand, with a small, almond-shaped jewel. She gazed at the ring for a while, then looked up.
‘I get the feeling that the time has come for you to find out why you were cut off, or had to be cut off, so abruptly, by those friends of yours.’