The knock on the actual door came at 7:42 p.m.
I was mid-sketch—trying to make a beer logo look "punk rock meets mountain stream" without it turning into a cartoon yeti drinking IPAs in flannel—when the sound registered. Not the window. The door. Actual wood. Actual hallway.
Progress, I told myself. Maybe the toothbrush girl had realized windows were not standard entry protocol.
I saved the file, pushed back from the folding table, and padded over in socks. Opened the door a cautious crack.
There she was again.
Sora.
Still in the same gray joggers—tight enough that I had to force my eyes up immediately—same navy cut-off tee, hair a little messier now, like she'd been running her hands through it. She held a six-pack of Asahi in one hand and a plastic convenience-store bag in the other. Grinning like she'd won the lottery and I was the prize.
"Yo, new guy," she said. "Game's starting in ten. Common room downstairs. Come watch with us?"
I blinked.
"Us?"
"Yeah. Me and a couple friends. Basketball. Finals rerun. Good one. You in?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Brain scrambled for polite refusal number one.
"I, uh… appreciate the invite, but I've got work. Deadlines. You know."
She tilted her head, scar catching the hallway light. "It's just one game. Hour and a half, tops. You can bring your laptop if you want. Multitask."
"I really can't. Sorry."
She nodded once. "Cool. No pressure."
Then she turned and walked away. Just like that. No argument. No guilt trip. Footsteps fading down the hall toward the stairs.
I closed the door. Leaned against it. Exhaled.
Relief hit like cool air after a long walk in summer. She'd asked. I'd said no. She'd accepted. Boundaries respected. Quiet life intact.
I went back to the table. Opened Photoshop again. Adjusted the font kerning on "Mountain Stream Lager." Felt almost normal.
Twenty minutes later—exactly twenty, I checked the clock—there was another knock.
Same door.
I opened it, expecting maybe a neighbor complaining about noise I hadn't made.
Nope.
Sora.
This time she had a ceramic bowl balanced on one palm—steaming edamame, shells still on, sprinkled with sea salt. The other hand held a small remote and her phone. She didn't wait for an invitation; she just stepped past me like the apartment was an extension of the hallway.
"Changed my mind," she announced. "Common room's packed with old guys yelling at the ref. Too loud. We'll watch here."
She kicked off her sneakers at the genkan—neatly, surprisingly—and padded straight to the middle of my six-mat floor. Sat cross-legged like she'd lived here for years. Set the edamame bowl between us. Pointed the remote at my monitor.
"You got a streaming app on this thing?"
I stood frozen in the doorway, hand still on the knob.
"I—"
"Cool, I'll use mine." She tapped her phone, cast the screen to my monitor with a few swipes. The basketball court bloomed across the 27 inches—crowd noise, announcer voice, the familiar squeak of sneakers. She patted the floor beside her.
"Sit. Eat. Relax. You look like you need it."
I looked down at myself. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Hair that hadn't seen a comb since yesterday. Yeah. Probably.
"How did you…?"
"Door was unlocked," she said, popping an edamame pod into her mouth. "You should lock it if you don't want company."
I hadn't left it unlocked. Had I? My brain short-circuited trying to remember. Maybe I had. Maybe she'd just… decided.
I closed the door. Latched it this time. Loudly.
She didn't notice. Or didn't care. She was already leaning back on her hands, legs stretched out, watching the screen like this was her living room.
I hovered for a second, then—because what else was there to do?—sat down. Not too close. A respectful meter away. Cross-legged. Stared at the game.
The players ran up and down the court. Someone dunked. The crowd roared through the speakers.
Sora cracked another pod, offered me the bowl.
"Salt's good. Try one."
I took one. The beans were warm, perfectly salted. Crunchy outside, soft inside. Better than anything I'd eaten since moving in.
She glanced sideways at me. "You always this quiet, or is it just me?"
"I'm… adjusting," I said. "New place. New city."
"Fair." She nodded. "I get it. I moved here two years ago. Took me a month to stop jumping every time the hallway light flickered."
Another dunk. More cheers.
She laughed—full-bodied, head thrown back, shoulders shaking. The sound filled the tiny room like it belonged there.
I risked a small smile.
She caught it. Grinned wider.
"See? Not so bad."
I didn't answer. Just ate another edamame.
The game went on. Halftime came. She stretched her arms over her head, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach—then dropped them again, oblivious.
I looked back at the screen. Focused very hard on the commentators debating defensive strategy.
She nudged the bowl toward me again.
"You got a name, new guy? Or should I keep calling you Toothbrush Savior?"
"Haruto," I said. "Miyase Haruto."
"Sora Kujo." She extended her fist. I bumped it awkwardly. Her knuckles were warm.
"Nice to officially meet you, Haruto."
The third quarter started.
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked on the screen. Muttered commentary under her breath—"C'mon, pass it, idiot"—then cheered when her team scored.
I watched her more than the game.
The way she leaned in during tense moments. The way her scar crinkled when she smiled. The casual way she occupied space—like my floor had always been hers to sit on.
I didn't know how this had happened.
One minute I was alone with my logo revisions.
The next, there was a girl in my apartment eating edamame and yelling at professional athletes through my monitor.
And somehow… I wasn't kicking her out.
The game ended. Her team won by four. She pumped her fist once, then flopped backward onto the floor with a satisfied sigh.
"That was a good one."
"Yeah," I said. And I meant it.
She sat up. Gathered the empty bowl. Stood.
"Gotta crash. Early training tomorrow." She slipped her sneakers back on. "Thanks for the company, Haruto. See you around."
She opened the door herself.
Paused.
"Lock this next time, yeah? Don't want random people wandering in."
She winked.
Then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Silence returned.
I stared at the empty spot on the floor where the bowl had been. A few stray edamame shells lay scattered like confetti.
I picked them up. Dropped them in the trash.
Sat back down at the table.
Opened Photoshop.
The logo stared back at me—edgier now, maybe. Punk rock mountain stream. Whatever that meant.
I exhaled.
Quiet life.
Right.
I saved the file.
And for the first time since moving in, the silence felt a little less empty.