The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting a soft amber glow across the wooden floor of Takumi's apartment.
The faint chirping of birds outside clashed with the dull heaviness in his chest. He sat on the edge of his bed for a while, unmoving, staring blankly at the pair of house slippers neatly placed near his door.
Everything looked ordinary. Everything felt wrong.
Last night still played like a film reel in his mind—the laughter, the closeness, the scent of warm soup and soft fabric, Saeko's lingering touch on his shoulder.
And then, just like that, a silence fell over them when she returned to her own door, closing it gently without a word, leaving a part of her warmth behind.
Takumi dragged his body to the bathroom, splashing water on his face. The mirror stared back, a boy halfway between isolation and something else—something terrifyingly unfamiliar: being cared for.
The clock ticked past eight. He was late for class, but he didn't care. The professor wouldn't notice. Nobody would. But Saeko would.
He put on his hoodie and stepped into the corridor. For a second, he considered knocking on her door.
What would he even say?
"Thanks for making me feel like a person again"? Or would he say nothing, just look into her eyes and hope she understood that everything inside him was changing, trembling under the surface?
But her door was shut, and he wasn't ready. He walked away.
...
The campus cafeteria was only half full when he arrived just before noon. He sat at a corner table with his tray—a half-eaten sandwich and canned coffee—and watched the world move around him.
Students chattered in groups, others scrolled on their phones, some sat alone like him but didn't seem nearly as hollow.
His phone buzzed.
Saeko-san:How's your day so far?
His heart jumped. The screen lit up like a tiny window to warmth. He stared at her message. No emojis. No fluff. Just her.
Takumi:I skipped class. Just not feeling it.
He hesitated.
Takumi:Thanks for last night. I haven't laughed like that in a long time.
She replied almost instantly.
Saeko-san:Then let's make today worth staying awake for. Come home early. I'm making something special.
Home.
He read that word again. She called it "home."
That evening, the scent of garlic and butter drifted into the hallway before he even reached the top of the stairs.
His feet carried him toward her door without thinking. This time, he didn't hesitate. He knocked.
The door opened, and there she was—in a soft beige apron over her dress, a gentle smile tugging at her lips.
"Welcome back, Takumi," she said.
It was such a simple sentence, but it hit him like a wave. Nobody had ever welcomed him home. Not like that.
He stepped inside, the light warmth of her apartment wrapping around him like a blanket. The small dining table was already set. Bowls of stew, a side of bread, salad, and warm tea waited patiently.
"Sit," she urged, already pulling out the chair for him. "Today you eat like someone who matters."
He swallowed the lump in his throat and sat down. For a while, neither of them spoke. They just ate, the sounds of utensils clinking softly against the plates.
"Did something happen today?" she finally asked, her tone gentle.
He stared into his tea.
"No," he said. "But everything feels like it's about to happen."
She looked at him, not with confusion, but with understanding. "That's what hope feels like."
He didn't reply. He didn't need to. The silence between them was different now—not empty, but full.
...
Later that night, they sat on the couch, a movie playing quietly in the background. Saeko's feet were tucked beneath her, and Takumi sat with his hands loosely clasped between his knees.
"You're changing," she said.
He looked at her, puzzled.
"What do you mean?"
"When I first saw you, you looked like you were barely breathing. Now, you're looking at things again. People. Yourself."
He let the words wash over him. He couldn't deny it. Something was changing. He wasn't fixed. But he wasn't as broken either.
"I still feel like I'm faking it. Like at any moment I'll just collapse again."
She nodded slowly. "You might. And if you do, I'll still be here."
The room fell quiet, save for the soft background music of the film. He didn't know what to say. He didn't even know how to say thank you anymore—it didn't seem enough.
So he did the only thing he could.
He shifted slightly, closing the distance between them until their shoulders brushed. And slowly, gently, he rested his head against hers.
She didn't move away. Instead, she tilted her head until it rested atop his, one hand finding his and holding it.
It was the smallest touch, but in it, Takumi felt the strongest anchor.
In the days that followed, their bond deepened in the spaces between words.
They didn't need long confessions or dramatic gestures. Instead, it was the way she packed an extra onigiri in his bento box, or how he started leaving his slippers neatly beside hers at the door.
One Saturday afternoon, he helped her grocery shop. They walked side by side through the aisles, Saeko making small comments about brand names and ingredients, while Takumi occasionally pushed the cart and listened.
When they reached the spice aisle, she paused and looked up at him.
"Do you like cinnamon?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I've never had it."
Her eyes widened slightly, then softened.
"Then you'll have cinnamon toast tomorrow morning. Non-negotiable."
He smiled faintly. "Yes, ma'am."
She laughed—a sound that had become his favorite song.
Later that evening, after dinner, he found himself in her kitchen helping with the dishes. Water ran warm between their hands, the air filled with quiet laughter.
"You're surprisingly good at this," she teased.
"Years of cleaning up my own messes," he replied dryly.
She nudged him gently. "You're doing fine."
They dried the plates together, standing closer than usual. As Saeko reached to place the last dish in the cabinet, her hand brushed his cheek. She paused.
Their eyes met.
Something unspoken passed between them. It wasn't a declaration. Not yet. But it was real.
And it was terrifying.
"Saeko," he murmured.
"Yes?"
He looked down, struggling with the words. "Are we... Is this... something?"
She leaned slightly closer.
"Do you want it to be?"
He couldn't answer. He didn't know how. But his silence was loud.
She didn't press. She simply touched his hand, squeezed it once, and said, "Then let's take it one dish at a time."
...
That night, he returned to his apartment, but didn't close the door all the way.
And minutes later, her door creaked open too.
They didn't speak.
But something invisible connected them across the hallway.
Not promises.
Not yet.
Just understanding.
Just warmth.
And that, for now, was enough.