"I see… this is the library."
Kotonoha's voice lifts slightly, like she's afraid the building might vanish if she speaks too loudly. I nod once. The library stands at the corner of the street, old and tall, smelling faintly of paper even from outside. She looks at it the way people look at places they want to belong to.
I gesture toward the restaurant across the street.
"My sister and I used to eat there," I say. The words come out flat, but they're true.
Kotonoha smiles, warm and immediate. "Then I'll try it too," she says. "With my mom. And my sister."
I nod again.
We walk down the central street together. Shibuya is loud today — colors, voices, footsteps, life spilling everywhere. Kotonoha stays close to me, talking, pointing, telling me how beautiful everything is, how different it feels from where she lived before. She sounds happy. Nervous, too. But mostly happy.
I turn the music player up.
Ten.
Her voice fades into motion instead of sound, her mouth still moving, her hands still gesturing, but none of it reaches me anymore. I nod when it feels right. I don't know what I'm agreeing to, and it doesn't matter. The old song fills the space instead. It's slower than the world, and that's why I like it.
At the edge of her street, she stops.
"Thank you, Makoto-kun," she says, bowing a little, cheeks pink again.
I nod.
That seems to be enough for her.
We turn away from each other without ceremony, each walking toward our own quiet.
The apartment is empty when I open the door.
I knew it would be.
I take off my shoes, place my bag down, and go straight to my room. The desk waits. Homework waits. Silence waits. I sit, open my notebook, and let my pencil move.
Halfway through, the song changes.
An old one. Soft. The kind that feels like it belongs to a memory instead of a moment.
Big sis would like this one, I think.
Kagura Inou.
She told me to call her that when I was little, laughing like it was a secret joke only we shared. I hum along without realizing it, low and quiet, and my eyes drift to the photo on my desk.
Kagura.
And Hatsuka.
They look so young in it. Too young. Smiling at the camera like the world hadn't gotten its hands on them yet. I took the photo from the Summer Radish Café when I was a kid because I thought they looked beautiful. They scolded me when they found out — then sighed, then let me keep it.
I still have it.
I wonder if they're finishing work now.
I wonder if they're tired.
I wonder if they're safe.
The song fades into the next, and my eyelids grow heavy.
Tomorrow is another day.
I let the music carry me into sleep.
"I see… this is the library."
Kotonoha's voice lifts slightly, like she's afraid the building might vanish if she speaks too loudly. I nod once. The library stands at the corner of the street, old and tall, smelling faintly of paper even from outside. She looks at it the way people look at places they want to belong to.
I gesture toward the restaurant across the street.
"My sister and I used to eat there," I say. The words come out flat, but they're true.
Kotonoha smiles, warm and immediate. "Then I'll try it too," she says. "With my mom. And my sister."
I nod again.
We walk down the central street together. Shibuya is loud today — colors, voices, footsteps, life spilling everywhere. Kotonoha stays close to me, talking, pointing, telling me how beautiful everything is, how different it feels from where she lived before. She sounds happy. Nervous, too. But mostly happy.
I turn the music player up.
Ten.
Her voice fades into motion instead of sound, her mouth still moving, her hands still gesturing, but none of it reaches me anymore. I nod when it feels right. I don't know what I'm agreeing to, and it doesn't matter. The old song fills the space instead. It's slower than the world, and that's why I like it.
At the edge of her street, she stops.
"Thank you, Makoto-kun," she says, bowing a little, cheeks pink again.
I nod.
That seems to be enough for her.
We turn away from each other without ceremony, each walking toward our own quiet.
The apartment is empty when I open the door.
I knew it would be.
I take off my shoes, place my bag down, and go straight to my room. The desk waits. Homework waits. Silence waits. I sit, open my notebook, and let my pencil move.
Halfway through, the song changes.
An old one. Soft. The kind that feels like it belongs to a memory instead of a moment.
Big sis would like this one, I think.
Kagura Inou.
She told me to call her that when I was little, laughing like it was a secret joke only we shared. I hum along without realizing it, low and quiet, and my eyes drift to the photo on my desk.
Kagura.
And Hatsuka.
They look so young in it. Too young. Smiling at the camera like the world hadn't gotten its hands on them yet. I took the photo from the Summer Radish Café when I was a kid because I thought they looked beautiful. They scolded me when they found out — then sighed, then let me keep it.
I still have it.
I wonder if they're finishing work now.
I wonder if they're tired.
I wonder if they're safe.
The song fades into the next, and my eyelids grow heavy.
Tomorrow is another day.
I let the music carry me into sleep.