My morning alarm is the first thing I hear, my mouth is open, and my throat is dry, like I've been breathing wrong all night.
I'm allowed five whole seconds to be in the unaware state of just opening my eyes and existing without anything to care about. The brief window of innocence.
For a second, I don't know where I am. It's that awful moment where your body wakes up before your brain, where everything feels slightly misaligned and foggy.
My sheets are twisted around my legs. My phone is on the pillow beside my face, buzzing from my alarm, like I fell asleep holding it and then let it slip the moment my hand went slack. I swipe it away with a groan.
And then I remember.
Not all at once. It comes back in vivid snapshots, like I'm dragging a net through water and pulling up pieces I don't want.
Kai's hand in my hair.
It comes back so sharply, my whole body reacts like it's happening again. My scalp tingles. My throat tightens. My stomach drops, hard and fast, like I've missed a step on the stairs.
I can feel the exact place his fingers were, even though it's hours ago and it's gone, and I'm lying here in my room as if nothing happened. My skin doesn't care about time. My skin remembers.
His thumb brushed my temple. He tucked a strand back like he'd done it a hundred times. Like it belonged there. Like I belonged close enough for him to do that without thinking.
And then the pause.
That little pause is the part that keeps killing me. The second where he didn't pull away. The second where I almost believed he wasn't going to.
My chest tightens so hard it hurts. I suck in a breath and it catches halfway, stops, like my lungs forgot what they're for.
Because right after that, he moved. He moved as if it were a mistake. Like his hand had betrayed him. Like he realised what he was doing and panicked.
He pulled back so fast it made the air feel cold.
I sit up too fast and plant my feet on the cold floorboards, frozen, and my brain does this stupid, frantic thing where it tries to rewind, like if I replay it enough times, I'll find the moment I ruined it. The moment I made him leave.
My eyes sting. I blink and the sting turns into heat and then suddenly I'm crying again, and I hate it because I didn't choose it. It just happens. Like my body is taking over because I can't hold it.
It's not even loud at first. It's quiet, ugly. A breath that shakes. A sharp inhale that turns into a sound in my throat that doesn't feel like mine.
My hand flies up to my mouth. Instinct. Panic. Like I can stop it by covering it.
I don't have words for it. I don't have the clean, adult vocabulary people use when they talk about things like abandonment and rejection. It's simpler than that. It's animal.
He touched me.
He left.
That's it. That's the whole equation my body is screaming at me.
The memory of his hand is still warm in my head, and the memory of him stepping away is like a door slamming. I can see it too. The way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes flicked somewhere else as if looking at me was suddenly too much.
Like I hadn't already felt it.
My chest starts doing that awful thing where it keeps trying to rise and it won't, like there's something sitting on my ribs. I swallow and it doesn't help. I wipe my face with my sleeve, and it just smears the wetness, making me feel worse.
My phone is on the pillow beside me. I can see it in the corner of my eye. It feels like a threat. It feels like an answer I'm not getting.
I pick it up anyway. My hands are trembling out of my control. My thumb hovers over the screen and I can't even think of what I want to see. A message. An apology. A joke. Anything. Some sign that last night didn't change something.
There's nothing.
Of course, there's nothing.
The empty chat stares back at me and something in my chest caves in like it finally gives up pretending.
I let out this broken sound that makes me cringe even as it's happening. I hate how needy it sounds. I hate how small I feel. I press my forehead into my palm and breathe through my fingers like that'll make it stop.
It doesn't.
Because the worst part isn't that he didn't text. The worst part is my brain immediately filling in the blank with the only thing it knows how to do: blaming me.
You leaned in.
You looked at him like you wanted it.
You didn't hide it fast enough.
I remember the way I tilted my face into his touch. I remember it like a confession. Like evidence.
My stomach turns. I cover my mouth again, harder this time, like I can physically force myself back into being normal. Tears drip onto my knuckles. My nose runs. It's gross. I'm a mess in my own bedroom over one stupid touch.
And I can't even call it "one stupid touch," because it wasn't stupid to me. It was everything.
I sit there shaking, swallowing sounds that keep trying to get out, and the only thought that stays steady in the middle of all this is the one that makes my throat close up again:
He came close enough to touch me.
And then he chose to leave.
I don't want the day to happen. The thought of sitting in lecture halls, trapped in my thoughts, or showing up at soccer practice makes me feel sick. I can't miss another day of lectures, and Coach Nakamura's voice echoes with Friday's pre-season match.
"He doesn't matter," I growl as I stand up too quickly. I tried. Desperate bravado, it sounded more convincing in my head.
The room tilts for a second. My neck complains. My stomach lurches like it's annoyed I'm forcing it to exist.
I stand there anyway, breathing through my nose like I've got this under control, like I'm not one wrong thought away from falling apart again. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, and it comes away damp.
Behave. That's the word that flashes in my head. Like I'm a dog. Like I'm something that needs training.
I cross to the window and yank the blinds up a little more than I need to, letting in too much light. The brightness makes my eyes ache.
My recital clothes are balled up on the floor near the bed. I kicked them off in pieces last night. Shirt inside out. Trousers twisted like they fought me on the way down. The mess looks like a crime scene. Last night wasn't a dream. I really did walk back into my apartment shaking and ruined.
If I pick them up, I have to touch them; it'll all come back too cleanly. The way I was dressed like someone who had their life together, sitting at that piano with my hands steady, pouring my heart out to the man who I thought wanted me back.
I turn, meaning to go to the bathroom, and that's when I see it properly.
Kai's jacket is neatly resting on my desk chair. Like I cared enough to place it there instead of dumping it on the floor like everything else in my room. It doesn't match anything around it.
His jacket looks like something you'd buy if money weren't a problem and you didn't want anyone to talk to you. A windbreaker, but it looks more like armour rather than a coat.
It's matte black, thick, heavy in my hands. The collar sits high and there's a strap across it, like you can buckle yourself in. The hood is big enough to swallow half my face. There are pockets everywhere. Big ones at the bottom, smaller ones up top, even on the sleeve. Straps that dangle for show. It looks built for bad weather and worse situations.
I touch the sleeves with my fingertips like it might bite. The weight of it settles into my hand and my stomach turns again, because my brain does that stupid thing where it acts like weight equals presence. Like if I can hold onto it, Kai's not fully gone.
That's not how it works. I know it's not. But my body doesn't know.
I gather it up without meaning to, lifting it off the chair carefully, like it's fragile. My wrist brushes against the inner lining and his scent hits me. For a second, my eyes burn so badly I have to stare at the floor.
Stop.
I squeeze the fabric tighter because I'm an idiot.
Stop it.
I should return his jacket. That would be the normal thing to do. Text him, meet up, hand it over like nothing happened. Like he didn't touch my face and then vanish. The thought makes my heart twist. If I reach out and he stays distant, I don't know what I'll do with myself.
So I won't.
I tell myself I'll give it back later, when things aren't like this. When I can breathe around him again. But the truth is uglier. Keeping it feels like collateral. Like if I don't give it back, he has a reason to show up. A reason to knock on my door or look for me after practice, even if he pretends it's just about a jacket.
I try to wear a brave face as I get ready. I can't bring myself to bother trying to look nice. These past couple of months, I thought I was just trying to feel good about myself. Taking care of my appearance despite what people might say. But the truth is far more humiliating; it was all for Kai.
I throw on a white long-sleeve shirt and black shorts. I don't even bother with my hair. The mirror makes my eyes look too obvious, so I grab a face mask and loop it over my ears. If people think I'm sick, maybe they won't look close enough to realise I've just been crying.
I don't leave right away.
I stand by the door with my hand on the handle like I'm waiting for something. A knock. A message. A sign that last night didn't happen the way it's replaying in my head.
Nothing comes.
So I force myself out.
Normally, I walk to campus. It's my thing. The long route, headphones in, music loud enough to drown out whatever I don't want to hear in my own head. Some mornings Yuujin joins me and we talk about nothing, which is the point. The walk is where I get to be a person before I have to be 'Ace' in front of everyone.
Today, the idea of spending that much time alone with myself makes me want to stop existing.
A long walk means thinking. It means replaying. It means the same few seconds on repeat until I'm halfway to campus and my throat is tight for no reason. I can't do that.
So I take the train.
It feels like cheating, like I'm avoiding something I'm supposed to face. I don't care. I just need the day to move faster.
The station is already busy. Gates beeping. Shoes scuffing. People flow in neat lines, as if it's automatic. I tap my card through and follow the current down the stairs. The air smells like metal and coffee.
When the train arrives, the doors open and everyone steps in without a word.
It's crowded, shoulder-to-shoulder, packed with salarymen in dark coats and women with neat hair and blank morning faces. But it's quiet. Not awkward quiet. Polite quiet. Like everyone agreed, without speaking, that this is a place you keep to yourself.
The only sounds are small. The hum of the carriage. The soft rustle of fabric. A brief cough someone covers immediately. An announcement that's calm and practised, like the train is apologising for existing.
I wedge myself near the door and stare at the floor. I keep my hands still. I keep my face neutral. I try to look like everyone else: tired, contained, going somewhere I'm supposed to go.
The silence makes everything worse.
There's nothing to drown out my own head. No conversation. No noise to hide behind. Just me, standing there with a body full of things I can't say, surrounded by people who would never let their faces crack like mine did last night.
I put my headphones in even though I don't play anything. Just having them in makes me feel less visible. Like it's a barrier. It gives me permission to not interact.
The train moves. The windows fill with blurred buildings and morning light.
And because there's nothing else happening, my mind goes straight where I don't want it to go.
Kai's hand in my hair.
The pause.
The way he pulled back like it was a reflex.
My chest tightens so suddenly I have to swallow. I stare harder at the floor like concentrating will fix it. Like I can control what I remember if I pretend I'm in control of anything.
No one around me moves. No one looks. Everyone stays perfectly sealed inside their own silence.
I envy them so much it makes me angry.
I take a slow breath in through my nose. Out through my mouth. Quiet. Careful. Like I'm trying not to disturb anyone with the fact that I'm falling apart.
When the next stop announcement plays, I latch onto it like a lifeline. A direction. Something objective.
Just get to campus.
Just make it through Wednesday.
Just behave.
—
Yuujin catches me outside the Faculty of Letters building like he's been waiting without making it obvious. He's leaning against the wall with his phone in his hand, but the second I step into the hallway, his eyes flick up and lock on me. That's the problem with Yuujin. He doesn't have to say anything. He notices.
I try to angle my body so it looks like I'm just passing by. Like I'm in a hurry. Like I'm normal.
He pushes off the wall anyway.
"Ace."
I keep walking. It's not even on purpose at first. My feet move like if I don't stop, I can keep the day going, and nothing can catch up to me. That's what it feels like. Being hunted by something you can't see.
Yuujin effortlessly matches my pace.
"I didn't see you after the recital last night," he says, grabbing my shoulder. I pull away instinctively. "Did Kai take you home again?"
"Mm," Is all I can manage, because it's easier than opening my mouth and letting how much I'm hurting crawl out.
We reach the end of the corridor, where the noise thins a bit. I keep my eyes on a poster taped to the wall, something about a club fair. The corners are peeling. The tape has gone cloudy.
Yuujin steps in front of me, not blocking me fully, just enough that I am forced to look at him.
His voice drops. "Are you okay?"
It's such a simple question. It shouldn't do anything to me, but it hits nonetheless. It hits like someone pressed a thumb into my bruises.
My throat closes so fast it's almost funny. My eyes sting before I can decide what I'm feeling. I look away immediately, like I can outrun it by turning my head. Like if I don't let him see my eyes, it won't count.
"I'm fine," I say, too quickly, too thin.
Yuujin is quiet for a second.
"Ace—you've been crying. Do I need to be mad at anyone? Kai?"
"No," I say, and it sounds stupid even to me.
"Come here," he murmurs. Not a question.
I should say no. I should laugh it off. I can't.
He pulls me in, quick and firm, his arm around my shoulders like he's shielding me from the hallway. His hand presses once between my shoulder blades, grounding, like an instruction. Then his arms wrap around me fully, sealing me in place for a hug.
"I know the difference between you just having a bad day and when you're hurting," he murmurs near my ear.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts. For a second, I go stiff, like my body doesn't know what to do with comfort. Then my shoulders drop, and it's awful how close I am to breaking.
Yuujin lets go before I can. Like he knows I'd be embarrassed if it lasted too long.
He looks at me again, eyes narrowed, speaking with a whisper. "What's going on, Anri?"
"I'm just sick," I say, because it's the only excuse that fits in my mouth without turning into a confession. "And I'm stressed about the match on Friday."
Yuujin doesn't argue. He just nods once, like he's decided something.
"Okay," he says. "Then I'm walking you to your lecture."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." He nudges me forward. "Still doing it."
—
After my last lecture, I sit there for a moment too long, as if I'm waiting for someone to tell me what to do next.
The room empties slowly. Chairs scrape against the floor. Bags zip shut. People speak in quiet voices as if everything is normal and they aren't just pretending to be alive. My notes are a mess. They are filled with incomplete sentences and underlines for things I don't remember hearing.
Yuujin waits for me outside again.
Normally, the walk to practice is when we chat. Whether it's a serious or silly conversation, it doesn't matter. Yuujin usually fills the silence without it feeling awkward. Today, he doesn't push. He keeps things light on purpose. He knows that if he tries to dig for the truth, it might lead to tears instead.
"So," he says, after a bit, "Friday."
"Yeah," I manage.
"You're gonna be fine," Yuujin says. "You always get in your head and then you turn into a monster on the field."
He rummages in his bag. "Eat," he hands me something from the convenience store. Onigiri, still cold, still in its wrapping. I stare at it like it's a trap.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't been eating properly," he says, and then he adds, softer, "Just take it."
I take it because arguing would take up too much energy that I don't have. I shove it into my bag without eating it, which feels like a compromise. Yuujin watches me do it without commenting.
We walk side by side across campus to the sports facilities. Yuujin talks about random things, like Coach being in a mood with Riku and the slickness of the pitch lately. I respond with sounds more than words.
I can't stop thinking about Kai. I wish I hadn't been so defiant when he gave me instructions and directives over the past two days. Why does it feel different when Kai notices me? Yuujin picks up on my habits because he knows me like a brother. But Kai? It's like he knows me better than I know myself.
But every time I feel like Kai pulls me a step forward, he pushes me two steps back. Pull. Push.
I actually thought something was building between us.
Yuujin glances at me as we walk, almost as if he can sense my thoughts. "Don't spiral," he says.
I give him a look.
He shrugs. "I'm just pointing it out so you stop acting like you don't."
We reach the locker room and the noise hits us. Guys are calling out, joking around, and there's the slap of a ball somewhere. Someone is complaining about their legs, as if they're seventy.
Yuujin heads to his section of benches and starts changing like nothing is wrong. It feels normal, easy. That only makes me feel more like I'm wearing my skin inside out.
Kai is already there.
He's tying his boots with that slow, precise focus he has, like the world can't touch him if he stays in control of small things. Sleeves pushed up. Hair slightly damp. Face blank enough that it's impossible to tell if last night exists for him at all.
My chest does that drop again.
I look away before he can catch me staring at him.
I change quickly. Hands clumsy, movements too sharp. I can feel Yuujin watching me without lingering, which is somehow worse. Like he's guarding me without making it obvious.
Coach Nakamura's whistle cuts through the locker room and everyone moves.
Outside, the evening air hits my face and I'm almost grateful that there's a cold breeze. It stings my eyes just enough to keep me from crying.
Warm-ups start. Laps. Stretches. Passing drills. For a few minutes, I can disappear into the rhythm of it. My body knows what to do. My brain doesn't get a vote.
Then Riku slides into the centre of everything like he owns it.
He doesn't have to shout. He just uses his tone. The 'captain' voice. The fake-calm authority that makes it sound like he's being helpful when he's actually twisting a knife.
"Ace," he calls, easy. "You're with me."
Yuujin's head turns slightly. Not obvious, but I feel it. He's already clocked it.
I jog over because what else can I do.
Riku looks me up and down like he's checking gear. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
His mouth twitches, like that's exactly what he wanted me to say. "Good. Then you won't mind extra reps and don't even think about letting Kai take over. Coach seems to think I'm too hard on you, but I think you're distracted."
He doesn't make it blatant. That's the worst part. He just pushes the drills a little past normal. Makes me sprint when everyone else is jogging. Makes me repeat a sequence because I "missed the timing." Calls it out loud enough that a few people look over.
"Again," he says, like it's nothing.
My lungs burn. My legs start to shake. I blink hard against the sting in my eyes and pretend it's the wind.
Yuujin steps closer at one point, drifting into the edge of the drill like he's just rotating positions. He catches my eye and makes a small, sharp tilt of his head—ignore him. He says my name once, under his breath, the way you do when you're trying to keep someone tethered.
Riku notices. Of course he does.
He smiles at Yuujin like it's friendly. "Problem?"
"You're pushing Ace too hard; ease up on him. Didn't Coach give you a hard time yesterday for doing just that?"
Riku's mood shifts, and he scoffs. "You rookies are starting to piss me off. You guys got some kind of harem thing going on that I don't know about, huh?"
My gaze flicks over to the other side of the pitch, to Kai. He's in the middle of a drill, moving like he's made of restraint. He doesn't come over. He doesn't say anything. If he's watching, he's doing it in a way that doesn't help me.
"Look at me, not him." Riku snarls at me, clicking his fingers in my face.
I'm so close to breaking. Too close to the urge to scream in Riku's face. Quitting soccer altogether, just walking off the pitch and forgetting I ever bothered trying. But I don't. I shut down. I just stand there and take it. It's just another brick in the wall that I'm building around myself at this point.
I want Kai to step in, do something. But he's so far away that he probably doesn't even know what's happening.
Then my throat tightens.
Because Yuujin can hug me in a corridor. Yuujin can stand near me on the field like a guardrail.
And all I can think, humiliatingly, is:
I want Kai to hug me like that.
Not just an arm around a teammate. But not anything complicated either. Something steady. Something that tells me that I didn't imagine everything that happened yesterday.
But Kai doesn't move. His hands don't leave whatever he's doing. He stays contained, unreachable, like touching me is the one thing he refuses to let himself do.
The rest of practice is draining. My body runs on muscle memory and instinct. Yuujin keeps drifting close when he can, like he's trying to block Riku's angles. Riku keeps pushing just enough to get under my skin without giving anyone a clean reason to call him out.
By the time Coach blows the final whistle, I'm tired in a way that feels deeper than muscle.
I'm one of the first to make it back to the locker room, so I take the opportunity to shower quickly and get out while most of the guys are occupied. Yuujin spots me getting out of the showers and bumps me on the shoulder. "Eat that Onigiri," he says like he can see straight into my bloodstream.
"I will," I lie, and he sighs like I knew he would before heading to the showers.
Kai comes out of his stall hardly dressed, no shirt, belt not fastened on his slacks, like he forgot other people exist for a second.
I look away too late.
Water is still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders, and I can feel my face heat up like my body is trying to betray me in front of a whole locker room. He's not even doing anything. He's just standing there, towel in one hand, rummaging in his bag with the other, calm as if he hasn't been living in my head for two straight days.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slowly put on his shirt. It's like he's taking his time on purpose. I hate that I can't tell if he's really doing it on purpose or if I'm just making everything about me.
He doesn't look at me. Or maybe he does, and I just miss it. Either way, it feels like I'm being ignored and watched at the same time.
The room is loud with everyone talking over each other, but it just becomes background noise. My ears keep tuning in for Kai's voice as if it's a reflex. Instead, I pick up the small sounds: fabric shifting, the click of a buckle, a zipper.
Kai finally fastens his belt. He moves as if he's trying to be careful. It's like even getting dressed has its own rules.
If he says something, I'm done. If he doesn't say something, I'm also done. There's no version of this where I walk out feeling normal.
I zip my bag and start toward the benches, putting my face mask back on as I go, aiming for the exit because leaving early is safer. Less chance of being stuck walking across campus with him in front of everyone. Less chance of me doing something stupid.
When I'm outside, I hear Kai's voice behind me for the first time since last night.
"Anri."
It's quiet and deep, close to a whisper.
My breath catches, my stomach flips so hard it actually makes me nauseous.
I stop like my body obeys him before my brain decides whether it's allowed.
I turn slightly.
Kai's standing only a few steps away, hair still damp at the ends. He's fully dressed now, which shouldn't matter, and somehow it does. He's wearing a black turtleneck that hugs his skin, but it looks ruffled as if he put it on in a rush.
His eyes flick over to my face, but he can only meet my eyes through my face mask. He holds his gaze for a second, then away again like he's correcting himself.
"Come on," he says, painfully neutral.
"Okay," I manage. My voice sounds normal. That's a miracle.
He shoves his keys into his pocket, slings his bag over his shoulder, and starts walking without waiting to see if I follow. Like he already knows I will.
The air is colder than it was during practice. The sky looks heavy above the ginkgo trees, like it's thinking about rain.
We walk through the Hongo campus as we usually do, and I know exactly where we're going. Students aren't really allowed to park on campus. Everyone takes the train or rides a bicycle. Kai drives regardless, as if rules are just suggestions and parking fees are trivial.
Kai walks next to me, but I keep my eyes fixed forward and pretend that the silence isn't gnawing at my ribs. His pace is steady, as if he's counting the steps.
We arrive at the edge of campus, and the noise from the main road swells. Kai doesn't hesitate. He walks directly to the crosswalk and heads into the small paid parking lot across the street, which sits between a convenience store and a low concrete building. His car looks exactly how it always does: clean, expensive, and completely out of place. I've never seen him check the parking meter or grumble about the cost. He just pays it, as if it's nothing, as if the thought of not driving never crosses his mind. It almost doesn't make sense; I've considered that maybe he just doesn't like taking the train or is "too cool" to ride a bicycle, but I've concluded that ordinary just doesn't suit him.
Kai unlocks the car, and for half a second, my stupid brain expects him to open the passenger door for me.
He doesn't do it.
He stops by his own door, keys still in his hand, and just looks at the car like it's a job he needs to finish. Then he glances over the car's roof at me; it looks accidental.
"Get in," he says. Two words. Not cruel but not warm either.
I nod like I'm normal and pull the passenger door open myself.
The second the door shuts, it's like I'm trapped with my own thoughts and the sound of the engine. Kai gets in and pulls out of the lot smoothly, like nothing happened today except training. Like he didn't spend the whole session acting like I'm radioactive.
The car is warm, which almost makes it worse.
I sit there with my hands in my lap, trying to keep my breathing even. My knee starts bouncing anyway, fast and small. I catch it and clamp my foot down hard, like I can discipline my body into behaving. I've never wanted to jump out of a moving car so much in my life.
Don't shake. Don't cry.
Kai keeps both hands on the steering wheel. He drives as if he's following rules only he knows. Streetlights flicker across his face in quick bursts. For a moment, the light highlights the strong line of his jaw and the way his mouth is set, then he disappears into a shadow again. Over and over. It's like the city reveals bits of him, then pulls them away before I can grasp anything.
I keep waiting for him to say something. Anything. Maybe he'll comment on practice, say something about Riku, something, anything that gives me a way in. But nothing. It's not like before; the silence used to feel comfortable. This feels intentional, like he's placed it between us and decided it's a boundary we're not going to cross.
I stare out of the window to avoid looking at him. Bunkyo moves past us in layers. I watch reflections sliding over the glass and pretend it's interesting. My eyes sting anyway, and I blink fast until it stops. I can't break in front of him. Not like this.
My mind circles to his jacket. I could act casual. You forgot your jacket last night. I could say it like it's just logistics, like returning the most ordinary thing in the world. And if I say it, maybe he'll answer. Maybe he'll have to come up to get it. Maybe he'll stand at my door again, and we'll get a few more seconds where it feels like we're almost something.
What if he just goes quiet? What if he stays, controlled and distant? Keep it, or I'll get it later, like it doesn't matter, like I don't matter, like coming upstairs with me is completely out of the question, and I'm insane for even thinking it.
I don't think I could handle another rejection. Not when I'm already holding myself together with string.
So I don't say anything. I swallow so hard, it feels like glass on the way down.
The car stops at a red light. The engine hums. Kai's fingers tighten on the wheel for a second, knuckles whitening slightly, then loosen as he realises. Like he caught himself.
It's such a small thing.
It means everything.
Because this is what it's been like for days now. He noticed me. He really noticed me. I felt it building, like he was letting himself look, letting himself get close, letting himself touch—
And now, suddenly, he looks as though he has to stop himself from looking at me.
Like even turning his head my way is dangerous.
I keep my gaze fixed on the window so I don't do something humiliating like turn and beg with my eyes. I can feel my throat tightening anyway, that familiar pressure. I blink again. My eyes burn. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and breathe through my nose like it's a trick.
The light turns green. The car moves.
Kai doesn't say a word.
The silence stretches long enough that it becomes its own conversation. It says: don't ask. Don't push. Don't make this worse.
I want him to break it first so badly it hurts. I want him to say my name like it means something. I want him to give me anything that isn't this careful distance.
My knee starts bouncing again. I stop it. My hands curl against my thighs until my nails press into my skin. If this face mask wasn't covering my trembling lips, then the façade would be over.
Just get to the apartment. Just make it to the door. You can fall apart after. Not here. Not next to him.
The main road leads to Sendagi. The buildings crowd in. The streetlights are harsher here, throwing sharp shadows across the pavement.
He pulls into the alley beside my building and parks smoothly, perfectly, like he always does.
The engine idles.
For a second, we just sit there. The silence is thick enough to touch.
This is the part where he'd get out of the car and walk me up to my door without making a big deal out of it.
Several painful seconds pass and my brain does something desperate.
If he walks me up, I'll do it.
Not a dramatic confession. Just action. I'll make it simple for him to understand. I'll pull him inside before he can talk himself out of it. Before he can put any more distance between us, I'll close the door behind us, put my hands on him, and make him look at me properly.
I can feel that surge of adrenaline, the way my pulse jumps like it's excited. Like, this is an actual plan, not a fantasy.
If he follows me to my door, I'll take it as permission. I'll pull him in, I'll—
My thoughts trip over the last part because, in my head, saying it like that makes it too real.
Kiss him.
I stare at the dashboard because that's safer than looking at him, like my face isn't already burning. I grip onto the seatbelt so hard that it digs into my palm.
Please. Just get out. Do something.
Kai doesn't move.
He keeps staring through the windshield, eyes fixed on something I can't see. It's like he's somewhere else. Like I'm not even here—like he's looking through me, past me, into a void I'll never reach.
The silence stretches so long that my hope turns sour. I swallow hard, trying to force the expression in my eyes to something I can survive with.
I unbuckle slowly and grip the door handle. I give him another second.
He doesn't look at me.
"Thanks," I mumble, the word catching somewhere between bitterness and resignation.
He doesn't bother with words, just lets a muted "Mm" slip out, voice flat, expression impossible to read.
The cold air hits me all at once when I get out of the car. I close the door behind me, softer than I meant to.
The car is still idling. Kai's still inside. I can feel it behind me without looking, the same way you can feel someone watching even when they're not.
I tell myself not to turn around.
I turn around anyway.
Kai's hands are on the wheel. His face is half-lit by the dashboard, half swallowed by shadow.
My keys feel cold in my hand. I hurry to the entrance, as if moving fast can stop my thoughts.
Halfway there, I look back again. My mind is foolish and hopeful, refusing to learn.
The car starts moving.
The headlights flash on the wall, bright for a moment. Then there's only the sound of tyres and the taillights vanishing around the corner.
He's gone before I even get inside.
The lobby has a faint smell of rubber and old concrete. The lights buzz. My footsteps echo loudly on the floor.
In the elevator, my legs feel heavy. The sound of Kai's car leaving keeps playing in my head, that soft shift into gear like a choice. The ding of each floor feels like it pulls me further away from what was developing and closer to whatever this is now.
By the time I reach my floor, my eyes sting and my throat aches. I fumble for my keys at my door, and they slip.
"Shit," I snarl, banging my fist against the heavy wood of my apartment door. I swallow and try again.
I barge through the door with my shoulder; the chill hits me, colder than outside, like the apartment has been holding its breath all day. Living alone has never really bothered me. I'm used to it. But today, my apartment doesn't feel like home.
I leave my shoes facing the door, and I put the Onigiri from my bag into the fridge—if I act like everything's fine, maybe I'll manage to delude myself.
I start towards my bedroom, thinking only about a cigarette and curling up in the fetal position under the covers.
But Kai's jacket is the first thing I see, draped over my desk chair like it's furniture. Black against the mess of my room.
I instinctively reach out to touch it.
It shouldn't feel like relief to feel how cold the fabric is under my fingers; it warms where my hand rests. I hate how quickly it makes me feel less alone. I hate that it feels automatic, like my body recognises him even when he's not here.
Behave, I think.
I lift it off the chair. The straps and clips tap softly against each other.
I hesitate, telling myself not to be that person, not to make it weird. But I put the jacket on anyway, breathing the faint trace of him left in the fabric.
It's way too big for me. The sleeves cover my hands, I zip it partway and the coat closes around me like a barrier.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at my room, letting the weight of the jacket settle my breathing. My fingers rub the cuff absentmindedly, like it's something I can hold onto.
Then my hand drifts to a pocket.
I freeze.
It's such a small movement, but I feel startled like I've done something wrong. Like reaching for a pocket is crossing a line.
And then my brain hands me the excuse like it's being helpful.
I should check before I return it. Make sure I don't accidentally keep something of his.
That's responsible. That's—
My heart is already thudding.
I don't even take a breath before I do it.
My hand is already inside one of the front pockets, fingers pushing past the lining like I've done it a hundred times. Like I'm not wearing Kai's jacket in my bedroom and acting like the pockets owe me something.
My fingers hit something hard and rectangular. I pull it out and it lands in my palm with a familiar weight.
A lighter.
It's sleek, matte black, textured with a lattice pattern. I turn it over once, then set it on my desk like it's evidence.
I go back in, same pocket.
Cigarettes. I pull the box out and almost scoff when I see the brand: Mevius Kiwami Gold. I didn't even know Kai smoked, but of course, it's a premium brand. The box is black, with the usual warning about second-hand smoke.
My thumb rubs over the edge of the lid. The pack feels light, and when I flip it open, there's a neat row inside. The cigarettes themselves have gold filters, which makes them look less like smokes and more like tiny VIP tickets to bad decisions.
Only a few are missing. That detail hits me harder than it should. As if he doesn't smoke much either. Like it's a habit he keeps on a leash, the same way I do.
I carefully slide one of the cigarettes from the packet, then pinch it between my fingers.
I don't even know why I'm doing it. I'm not out of cigarettes, I'm not desperate; I have a pack inside my lockbox. I just want to see what it feels like—want the taste of something that's his, without having to ask for it.
My heart beats louder. My hands feel too warm all of a sudden.
I should put it back.
Instead, I reach under the bed for my lockbox and click it open for my own pack: Pianissimo Peach Mint. I hold the packets next to each other, and the contrast looks obscene—the pink packaging stupidly bright against the black.
I take one of the cigarettes from my packet and slip it neatly into Kai's packet as if it belongs there. Even though he will definitely notice the white filter sitting with the golden ones.
It's not a replacement. It's a mark. A thread. Proof that I was here, that I touched the same things he touches.
I put the packet down on my desk, beside the lighter, like I'm organising him.
Next pocket. The one on the other side.
My fingers brush against loose coins, I fish them out, and they clink together in my hand. A few thousand yen, nothing dramatic. I arrange them by size and set them on the desk.
My hands wander to the inner lining of his jacket. I move to a small pocket near the chest. A zipper hidden in a seam. My thumb finds the pull and I hesitate. This feels too close. Like I'm reaching somewhere he actually meant to keep private.
Inside is something small and cylindrical.
Lip balm.
It's such a stupid, normal thing that for a second, I don't know what to do with it. I had braced for something shady that would justify the way my stomach has been flipping all week.
Lip balm just makes him more human.
I roll it between my fingers once and set it down with the rest. My desk is starting to look like a tidy little shrine.
I reach back into the same pocket. My fingers find paper.
I pull it out, slightly stiff, like it's been folded and unfolded a few times. The edge is jagged. Torn, not cut. Like it was ripped straight out of something.
It takes me a second to realise what it is.
I unfold it once. Twice.
A planner page.
The kind with the week laid out in neat boxes, dates printed small in the corners. This week on one side, last week on the other. There's a faint crease from where it was folded down the middle.
May 26 – June 1 printed across the top, and there's handwriting in most of the boxes—short, clipped, more like reminders.
Enough to show a life moving around without explaining itself.
May
Mon 26: Call/Bank Late/Tired
Tue 27: Shibuya-ku (pm) Didn't eat
Wed 28: Training Tired, Low stamina
Thu 29: Training, Riku Too close
Fri 30: Shibuya-ku
Sat 31: 19:00
Sun 01: Gym
I stare at it, waiting for my brain to attach any meaning to it. I set reminders on my phone; maybe this is just how he sticks to a schedule.
It just feels private. It feels like opening a drawer I wasn't meant to.
I flip the page over. This week.
My body goes cold, even with his jacket threatening to swallow me.
June 2 – June 8
The ink is fresh enough to still feel close. My eyes land on Monday first.
June
Mon 02: Training Didn't eat, Fell asleep (car), 502 / 5F
I stop breathing for a second.
That's my floor, my apartment number.
It's written like a normal detail. Like a reminder.
My hands tighten around the paper, hard enough to crinkle, and the sound makes me flinch. I read it once, then again, slower, as if the words might change if I gave them enough time.
They don't.
No feelings. Concern? Am I just an entry in a planner? A schedule?
I'm a list of things to monitor.
My throat feels tight. The burn in my eyes feels hot and sharp, and I blink hard like that's going to fix it.
My gaze drops to Tuesday, yesterday.
My heart is in my throat.
Tue 03: Psych deadline, training Didn't come in, late to practice, Riku, recital 19:30
The hairs stand on the back of my neck, independently alive.
Recital 19:30.
The time looks too clean on the page, like he was always going to be there. Like it mattered enough to log.
I force myself to check the rest of the page, but it's empty. Clean boxes waiting to be filled. I feel sick because it means he was going to keep going. He was going to write the rest of the week down, the same way, in the same tidy little lines, and then—
He gave me the jacket. Then he couldn't.
I try to tell myself there's a normal explanation, that he's just organised, it's just team stuff.
Then why my apartment number?
My hands are trembling. I hate that my body is reacting like this is a threat and not just words on a page. Not a violent threat. A threat that says: I can manage you better than you can.
I should put it back and pretend I never saw it.
My fingers hover over the inner pocket it came from.
And because I'm already here, because I'm already the kind of person who does this apparently, my hand brushes the inside seam of the jacket as I go to tuck the page away.
Something catches under my knuckle. Another zipper I didn't notice before. Smaller than the others. More discrete.
This is ridiculous. This is too much. I shouldn't—
I pinch the zipper between my fingers and pull it open fast, like ripping off a plaster.
The pocket is deeper than it looks. Warm, because the fabric is against my side. My hand goes in and finds another slip of paper, folded even smaller than the first.
It looks like it was torn from a notebook. I pull it out and unfold it once.
Mizuno
Shibuya-ku – Dōgenzaka
I fix my gaze on it for a moment, half-expecting some reaction to spark in my mind.
But nothing really comes. Not in any meaningful way.
It registers as odd—just a little. Like stumbling across someone else's password scribbled on a scrap of paper, or seeing a name you know you shouldn't. Yet my chest is already crowded with the weight of that other note—the one with my apartment number written on it, as if it's a set of coordinates.
My body won't let it become the main problem.
I fold the address slip back up and shove it into the hidden pocket so quickly it's like I'm hiding it from myself. I zip it closed, then press my palm flat against the lining for a second, like I can seal it in.
Like that fixes anything.
Then I take the first note—the one with my week on it—and I hold it for a beat too long before forcing my hand to move.
I tuck it back into the pocket. Deep. Like it belongs there. Like I don't want it in my room.
My fingers shake as I push the pocket flap down.
I stand there in the middle of my bedroom wearing his jacket, breathing too shallow, heart too loud.
My desk has the lighter, the cigarettes, the lip balm, the coins—little pieces of him laid out neatly like I meant to do this all along.
I don't know whether I want to put everything back because it feels wrong or keep it out because it feels like proof.
"Organised," I whisper to myself, like saying it out loud will make it true. Like it's a normal word that can cover what I just read.
My eyes burn.
I don't cry. Not yet. I refuse to let it happen while I'm still wearing his jacket like this.
I scoop the small things back into the pocket one by one, hands moving too fast, like I'm rewinding time. The coins clink. The cigarette packet crinkles.
When everything is back where I found it, I zip the pockets closed like I'm locking a door.
Then I sit down on the edge of my bed in the jacket and stare at the floor, breathing through my nose, trying to make my heartbeat slow.
The jacket still smells like him.
It still feels like comfort.
And now it feels like a warning, too.
I end up on the balcony without really deciding to.
I don't wear shoes. I slide the glass door open and step outside into the cold. The night air hits my face with a sting. It smells like damp concrete and has a hint of someone else's laundry coming from another balcony.
My hands are still shaking.
I lean my forearms on the railing and stare down at the street like it has answers. Traffic hisses past, wet-sounding even though it hasn't rained yet. Somewhere a train passes, a low rumble that fades quickly.
My fingers find the cigarette in my packet before I can talk myself out of it.
Kai's.
I roll it between my fingers, feeling the weight of the choice like it matters.
I pull my lighter out. Flick it once. The flame catches. I hover for half a second, like I'm waiting for someone to stop me.
I bring it to my mouth and light it.
The first drag hits wrong. Stronger than my Pianissimo. Heavier. No sweet mint to soften it. The smoke scratches the back of my throat and I cough once into my fist, sharp and embarrassed even though I'm alone.
I take another drag anyway. Slower this time. I let it fill my lungs until my chest burns and then I exhale over the railing, watching the smoke curl and break apart in the air.
It tastes like something I don't have a name for. Not just tobacco. Not just bitterness.
Something that feels like him.
I should be scared. Of being tracked, watched, like I'm data.
The only thought that scares me is that he might stop. His gaze could drift elsewhere, as if I never mattered at all. That he might forget about me—I'll become invisible to him. That scares me more than anything he's capable of.
I tap ash into the small tray I keep out here. I take another drag to give my mouth something to do. My head feels noisy. The smoke quiets it for a moment. Not better, just quieter.
The sound of a knock cuts through the apartment behind me.
Three sharp taps.
I freeze with the cigarette between my fingers. My heart slams once, hard, so loud I swear it echoes in my ears. For a split second, my brain goes blank, and then it fills with one thought so fast it's like it was waiting.
Kai.
He came back. He wants the jacket. He wants—
He saw. He knows. He's—
I crush the cigarette out too quickly, almost breaking it, and shove the butt into the tray like it's something I can erase. Smoke still clings to my fingers. My palms sweat. My throat tightens as I step back inside and quietly close the balcony door. I hope being quiet will change who's on the other side.
Another knock.
My stomach drops.
I take the jacket off in a hurry and try to put it exactly as I found it, draped over my desk chair.
I look through the peephole.
Not Kai.
A delivery guy in a cap, holding a bag with steam fogging the plastic slightly. Curry. The smell hits even through the door.
I unlock it slowly anyway, like this could still be a trick.
The delivery guy does a small bow. "Delivery."
"I—" My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. "I didn't order anything."
He glances down at his phone, then back up at me like he's heard this before. "It's paid for," he says, and holds the bag out. "Just take it."
The curry smell is so strong and familiar. It's from my favourite restaurant, here in Sendagi. Not that I indulge often, only on 'special' occasions like my birthday. This isn't a special occasion; my birthday was in March, before university even started.
"I didn't—" I start again, because my brain can't let go of the idea that I'm not allowed to accept things I didn't ask for.
He shifts his weight, polite but firm. "Paid already," he repeats, softer, like he doesn't want to argue. "No signature."
I swallow. My fingers curl around the handles automatically. The bag is too warm. Like it's been waiting for me.
"Okay, thank you." I manage with a meek bow.
He bows again and steps back, already turning away like this is the least interesting thing that's happened to him all day.
I shut the door and lock it twice without thinking.
The bag sits in my hand like a weight.
I open the lid, and the smell hits first—sweet spice and fried crust and something warm underneath it that makes my throat tighten. Chicken katsu curry over white rice. The cutlet's sliced into neat strips, crunchy edges already going soft where the sauce has soaked in. The curry is thick and glossy, that golden-brown colour that always looks too plain until you taste it.
It's my favourite. It's the one my mum used to make when she could be bothered—when she was in one of her better moods, when the kitchen smelled like food instead of silence. That's the worst part. I'm still bitter, still angry about a thousand things, and my body still reacts to this like it's safety. Like I'm eight again at the table, trying not to talk too much, trying not to do anything that ruins it.
I stand at the counter, smelling curry and cigarette smoke on my own fingers, and I don't know which part makes me feel worse—that I didn't order it…
…or that I know exactly who did.