Bad Omens

You’ve known Koma Mayu your whole life.

From living in the same neighborhood to going to the same school in the same classes each year like two people who were joined at the hip.

Some people became friends through grand moments.

Then there was you and Mayu who became friends through repetition.

Through the same routine.

Through the thousand small accidents that eventually harden into fate.

Walking to elementary school because both your mothers trusted neither of you alone near traffic, sharing umbrellas every rainy season because she never remembered hers and always acted surprised by weather, as if clouds always knew the best time to start pouring. Trading lunches because she hated cafeteria food and she just so happened to love your mother’s cooking. Competing over test scores, then pretending not to care. Arguing over nonsense so frequently that teachers began separating you by instinct before attendance was even finished.

When you were seven, she shoved you off a swing because you said her drawing of a rabbit looked like an deformed potato with lopsided ears.

When you were eight, you took the blame when she broke a classroom window with a dodgeball because she cried too convincingly to make the teacher believe otherwise.

When you were ten, she announced to three horrified classmates that she would probably marry you someday since it was the “easiest” choice.

When you were eleven, she denied ever saying it with such violence you nearly believed her.

That was Mayu.

Loud where you were quiet, impulsive where you were being cautious.

By middle school, people assumed you were siblings.

By high school, people assumed you were dating.

By college, people assumed one of you would confess eventually.

Neither of you did.

Or rather, you didn’t.

Mayu treated affection like confetti, easy to throw yet hard to keep track of.

She linked arms with you crossing streets, fell asleep on your shoulder during train rides, stole food from your plate without any moral regard. Called you first when she got accepted into university, when she failed a driving test, when she cried after a bad breakup, when she locked herself out of her apartment wearing slippers and her pyjamas.

You were the person she ran to.

You made the fatal mistake of thinking that meant something romantic.

Maybe it did once, maybe it never did.

Feelings didn’t arrive for you in a singular strike of epiphany.

They arrived like moss, quietly, gradually, spreading over everything before you realized it was actually there.

Somewhere between helping her study for exams and watching her laugh so hard she hiccuped milk tea through her nose, you fell in love with her.

Then stayed there for years.

You told yourself there was time.

There was always another season.

Another graduation.

Another summer festival.

Another almost-confession interrupted by phone calls, friends arriving, bad timing, your own cowardice dressed up as patience.

And Mayu, oblivious or merciful, continued being herself.

You seemingly lost track of time as it passed, lost track of the days where you could’ve said something or just anything in that manner.

Now, time decided to hit you square in the face.

She got a boyfriend.

Right, it stung at first but you thought of the other exes she had and maybe it would’ve ended the same but time hit you with another punch straight to your gut.

She was getting married soon.

And here you were having brunch with her and her fiance.

The cafe was one of those polished places, white walls, hanging plants, wooden tables so smooth they reflected your mistakes back at you. Soft jazz drifted through the room like it paid rent there. 

Across from you, Mayu was slicing through her stack of pancakes as she leaned in to the man beside her while he said something you didn’t quite catch.

“You’re staring again,” she said around a bite.

“Sorry, spaced out a little.”

“Sure,” Mayu said, unconvinced.

She pointed her fork at you without looking away from her pancakes.

“That’s what you call it when your soul leaves your body?”

“I call it being hungry.”

Beside her, her fiancé laughed softly.

Takase Rin had the kind of laugh that sounded expensive, low, easy, annoyingly sound.

You distrusted it immediately.

Rin sat with the relaxed posture of a man who belonged wherever he happened to be. Sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms, watch subtle but probably expensive, hair behaving in a way that matched him perfectly.

He looked like the final draft of a person, the perfect and ideal man.

You, by comparison, felt like you still had notes to keep track of.

“I’m glad you came with us today, Mayu has told me a lot about you.”

You smiled politely.

He had the kind of calm that made you suspicious. Nobody should be that at ease before noon.

“I’ve heard you two have known each other forever,” he said.

“Unfortunately,” you replied.

“Since we were kids,” Mayu corrected, chewing happily. “He cried when he lost a race to me in third grade.”

“I did not cry.”

“You looked close enough.”

“It was windy.”

“We were indoors.”

You looked at Rin. “This is what your future will be. She lies casually and with confidence too.”

“I just remember things differently.” Mayu said.

Rin laughed softly, but not in a way that felt performative. He seemed genuinely amused by the two of you, as if watching a language he did not fully understand but wanted to learn.

Across the table, Mayu looked lighter than you remembered. She wasn’t louder nor brighter in the obvious sense, but more at ease. There was something in the way she leaned toward Rin when he spoke, the way she touched his sleeve absentmindedly while reaching for syrup, the way she smiled before he had even finished a sentence. They were small gestures, nearly invisible unless you knew her well.

And you did, a bit too much which was the problem. 

“When I broke the classroom window in second grade, he took the blame for me,” Mayu said.

Rin turned to you. “Really?”

You shrugged. “She cried too much.”

“I was being persuasive,” Mayu said.

“You were terrifying.”

“She still can be,” Rin said gently.

Mayu looked offended for half a second, then pleased.

You looked down at your coffee before anyone could notice the expression on your face.

There had been years when you were the person who knew every version of her. The dramatic one, the angry one, the tired one, the one who called at midnight because she had locked herself out. Now someone else was learning those versions one by one, and she was letting him.

It should have been natural but It still felt like being replaced in slow motion.

“Oh right,” Mayu said suddenly. “We’re going to be choosing flowers for the venue, I’m gonna need your honest opinion about everything.”

You looked up at her.

“My honest opinion about flowers?”

“About everything,” Mayu repeated. “Flowers, table settings, invitations, the venue layout, whether the cake tastes off. I need someone who won’t just tell me everything looks nice.”

She tilted her head toward Rin.

“He keeps being reasonable.”

Rin did not seem offended. He simply took a sip of coffee and said, “I thought being supportive was the only thing I should be doing.”

“It is,” Mayu said. “But supportive people are useless when I need criticism.” she looked over back across the table.

“So you’ll come with us?” she continued as she nudged your shin under the table.

You looked between them and understood, with a clarity that felt almost cruel, how differently each of them saw you.

Rin watched with the patience of someone waiting for an answer he believed mattered. There was courtesy in it, and a certain confidence too, as though he assumed you would come because reasonable people usually did when asked.

Mayu looked at you the way she always had, with the casual certainty of someone who never had to question whether you would want to be there.

“I—I guess I could, not much to do today anyways.” You finally said.

“Great! Hopefully you wouldn’t mind tagging along for a couple more days, I could use another voice apart from his.” Mayu chuckled lightly, hand smacking Rin’s shoulder before she leaned in again and wrapped her arm around his.

An unwelcome thought crossed your mind.

Would anything have changed if you had said something years ago?

If you had chosen one of the thousand ordinary afternoons you shared and broken it open with honesty. If you had spoken during the walk home after graduation, or on that summer night when fireworks burst over the river and she had leaned against your shoulder without thinking. If you had said it after she cried over another man who did not know how to keep what he was given.

If you had been brave once instead of patient forever.

Would you be the one seated beside her now, close enough for her hand to find your sleeve without thought? Would her laughter be turned toward you instead of across the table? Would this same cafe be softened by happiness instead of sharpened by regret?

Or would you have ruined the one thing you had managed to keep?

That possibility has always frightened you more.

Losing the chance of romance was always dispensable, losing her wasn’t.

You chose to wait so many times it became your personality, a part of you.

Across the table, Mayu was saying something about peonies with complete seriousness, while Rin listened as though flowers might decide their fate in the future.

You watched her laugh at her own point before either of you answered.

Some things about her had not changed at all.

She still moved through the world expecting affection and somehow receiving it.

Perhaps that was why people loved her.

Perhaps that was why you did.

Rin said something low enough that only she heard. She smiled before he finished speaking and tightened her arm around his.

It would be easy to resent Rin if he were arrogant, careless, dismissive. It would have been easier if he had taken her from you like something stolen.

Instead, he was kind, attentive, patient enough to let her interrupt him, amused enough to enjoy it.

He had not taken anything, instead he had simply arrived while you were still hesitating.

“Eat up, your food is going cold.” Mayu asked.

You were brought out of your own thoughts, finding yourself again in the atmosphere of the cafe.

“Right,” You answered, eyes drifting down to your own set of pancakes that were still untouched.

A sigh left your lips then, a silent prayer, wishing to gather the strength to finally say something soon.

By the time the three of you reached the florist, a part of you was already regretting tagging along with them.

The shop sat on a corner street with tall windows fogged by cool air and humidity, rows of flowers visible through the glass like a carefully arranged art piece. Buckets of roses, lilies, tulips, hydrangeas, eucalyptus, peonies, and flowers you could not identify crowded every surface. The entire place smelled fresh and sweet.

Mayu walked in first as if she had personally commissioned spring.

“Hello,” she called brightly to no one in particular. “We’re here to choose the wedding flowers,

A woman behind the counter looked up, unsurprised in the way service workers often were when confronted.

“Appointment for Koma and Takase?”

“Soon to be Mrs. Takase,” Mayu answered. “But yes.”

They heard a loud sigh behind them then.

Mayu turned first, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just taking in the smell of. . .everything.” You answered, looking at the colors around the shop.

That seemed to be a sufficient answer.

The florist gestured toward a consultation table set with sample bouquets, fabric swatches, candles, and catalogues.

“Please, have a seat.”

Mayu sat first without hesitation, already leaning forward to inspect everything laid out on the table. Rin took the chair beside her. You sat across from them a moment later, feeling less like a guest and more like someone who had wandered into the wrong meeting.

The florist opened a binder and smiled professionally.

“Do you already have a theme in mind?”

“Not really,” Mayu said. “I know what I don’t want more than what I do want.”

“That helps too,” the florist replied.

“I don’t want anything stiff or cold colors,” Mayu continued.

“That helps too,” the florist replied.

“Oh, how about this one. You like lilies, don’t you? I heard they’re in season too.” Rin leaned in, pointing to another side of the binder.

Mayu’s eyes shifted toward the page Rin had pointed to, but before she could say anything, you leaned forward and turned the binder slightly.

“What? You should take a look at the roses. Those are your favourites, I know that.”

The florist wisely pretended to reorganize ribbon samples.

Mayu looked at you first, then at the binder, then back again.

“You’re right but I also like lilies,” she said.

You sat back. “I know. I was just saying roses suit you more.”

Rin’s hand withdrew from the page without saying anything. He didn’t look offended, which somehow made it worse.

Mayu studied you for another second before turning back to the binder.

“Can I see both?” she asked the florist.

“Of course.”

Two sample arrangements were brought over, one built around white lilies and pale greenery. The other fuller, layered with blush roses and cream accents.

Mayu compared them carefully.

“These are nice,” she said, touching one of the rose petals. “But maybe too cliche.”

You opened your mouth.

“She hasn’t finished,” Rin said mildly.

You looked at him.

He had spoken without edge, without challenge, in the same tone someone might use to remind another person not to interrupt a weather report.

Mayu continued as if she had not noticed.

“And these are elegant,” she said, nodding at the lilies, “but maybe a little formal.”

The florist nodded. “We can combine elements of both.”

“That sounds good,” Rin said.

“That sounds expensive,” you said.

“That also sounds possible to do,” the florist replied smoothly.

Mayu laughed once, but her attention had changed. There was a slight tightness around her eyes now, something only visible if you knew her well.

The florist laid out more options, centerpieces with cascading greenery, minimalist arrangements, candles in varying heights, linen samples that all seemed determined to be different shades of white while pretending otherwise.

Mayu picked up two samples.

“Which one looks better?”

You reached for the left one.

“The other,” Rin said at the same time.

“Why?” She glanced between you both.

You answered first. “This one is cleaner.”

Rin nodded toward the other. “That one feels warmer.”

“I hate when you both make sense.” Mayu looked down at them, then set both aside. 

“That seems unlikely,” you muttered.

She ignored that.

A few minutes later, the florist suggested they take a look around the shop in case anything else caught their attention.

Mayu and Rin moved into the aisles together, walking shoulder to shoulder between rows of flowers and shelves lined with candles, vases, and ribbon spools arranged by color.

You drifted in the opposite direction without announcing it.

There was no need when no one had asked where you were going.

You paused beside a display of dried arrangements you suspected existed for people who wanted to give their shelf some design. Across the room, Mayu laughed at something Rin said. You did not hear the joke, only the sound of her laughter arriving clearly enough to be unhelpful.

She was looking at table lanterns now, one hand looped lightly around his arm while he held two sample candles for comparison. Even from a distance, they moved easily together, no hesitation over space, no uncertainty over touch. The kind of comfort people built when they had chosen each other plainly.

You looked away first.

Meanwhile, Mayu reached for a small arrangement of chrysanthemums and set it back down.

“What about these?” Rin asked.

“Maybe for the guest tables.”

He nodded, thoughtful as ever.

She should’ve been focused on the choices in front of her, but instead she found herself glancing toward the back of the shop where you had wandered off.

She frowned faintly.

There had been something strange about you all morning, more than strange, actually. Sharp around the edges. Every suggestion Rin made seemed to pull some reflex out of you before you could stop it.

Normally, if you were irritated, you said so.

Normally, if something bothered you, you made a dry comment and moved on.

Today you kept smiling first.

That felt worse.

Rin had accidentally picked a flower from one of the displays and offered it to her. Mayu brushed back some strands of her hair that fell from the side of her head. He idly leaned in, about to place it over her ear.

“Oh, that would make a good bundle for the bouquet toss.” Your voice came in then, interrupting them.

Rin’s hand paused halfway to her face.

Mayu turned first.

You stood at the end of the aisle holding a small basket of ribbon samples you clearly had no reason to be carrying.

“What?”

You nodded toward the flower in Rin’s hand.

“I said that would make a good bundle for the bouquet toss.” you repeated.

There was a brief silence.

The florist, somewhere nearby, made the wise decision to disappear behind a shelf of glass vases.

Rin lowered his hand slowly and looked at the flower. “It was just one stem,” he said.

“I know,” you replied, stepping closer. “I was just suggesting.”

“With what?” Mayu asked.

“A use for it.”

Rin glanced at the flower, then at you, trying to follow a conversation that had clearly taken a turn only two longtime friends understood.

Mayu took the stem from his hand and tucked it behind her own ear. “There,” she said. “Now it has a use.”

“It’s crooked.” you said, looking at her for a moment. 

“It’s just a flower,” her expression flattened.

“Yes but—here, let me,” you reached out and carefully adjusted the flower.

Your fingers brushed near her temple as you straightened the stem.

The gesture was small, familiar, thoughtless in the way old habits often were.

Mayu went still.

You had done things like this before across years. Brushed rainwater from her sleeve. Fixed a twisted scarf. Pulled a leaf from her hair during autumn walks. The kind of tiny intimacies that belonged to no category because neither of you had ever forced them into one.

Only now Rin was standing beside her.

“There,” you said quietly, letting your hand fall away. “Better.”

Mayu blinked once, then stepped back half a pace.

“I could have fixed it myself.”

“But I did it for you, deal with it.” 

Rin, to his credit, said nothing immediately. He only watched the two of you with an expression that suggested he had entered a room halfway through a conversation years in progress.

Mayu touched the flower where you had adjusted it, as if checking whether it had really changed.

“What is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,”

“Trust me. If something was bothering me, you’d be the first one to know.” you replied before glancing over to Rin. “No offense.”

Rin gave a small nod. “None taken.”

He said it easily, but the air had already changed.

Mayu’s eyes narrowed.

“You say that like it means something.”

“It means exactly what it sounds like.”

“That’s rarely true when it comes from you.”

You let out a short breath that almost passed for a laugh.

“I’m fine, really. You two can keep looking around. I’ll come back if I find something useful.”

You dipped your head slightly, more habit than politeness, then turned and walked toward the far side of the shop before either of them could answer.

Mayu watched you go.

She told herself it was nothing. You could be strange sometimes. Difficult for reasons even you did not understand. There had been days in school when you refused to speak until lunch because someone beat you at a game you claimed not to care about. There had been weeks where stress made you sarcastic more than sane.

This could be one of those moods.

Still, something about today felt less careless and more deliberate.

Rin picked up a ribbon sample and glanced at her. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” Mayu said immediately.

Then, after a pause, “Probably not.”

He smiled faintly. “Comforting.”

“He’s just being weird.”

“You say that with a lot of confidence for someone frowning.”

She straightened at once. “I’m not frowning.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That expression usually means trouble for someone else.”

Despite herself, she smiled. It faded quickly when she looked back toward the rear of the store.

You were pretending to study centerpiece arrangements, hard enough to make it seem you actually knew where they belonged to. Every few seconds, your eyes moved without meaning to and returned in their direction before darting away again.

Mayu knew your habits the way people knew the route home in the dark.

When you were annoyed, your jaw tightened.

When you were embarrassed, you became overly helpful.

When something mattered too much, you acted as if it didn’t matter at all.

She folded her arms.

“What?” Rin asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

But it wasn’t nothing, it was far from it.

Days later, you found yourself with them again.

This time it was a bakery known for elaborate pastries and custom wedding cakes, the sort of place that did not mind adding an extra tier if someone was willing to pay for it. Rows of glossy fruit tarts, delicate layered slices, and miniature desserts sat behind glass like museum pieces under refrigeration, each tagged with names you could barely pronounce.

What exactly was a Gateau Debord, and why did it cost more than your lunch?

Mayu and Rin were already at the display counter, speaking with an attendant in a clean, crisp apron while you lingered a step behind, pretending to study a tray of macarons you had no intention of buying.

When the consultant noticed you, she smiled politely.

“Right this way.”

She led the three of you toward a private tasting area at the back of the store. A round table had been prepared with small plated samples, forks, glasses of water, and neatly labeled cards identifying each flavor.

Vanilla. Black Forest. Red velvet. Strawberry Shortcake. Dark Chocolate and Milk Chocolate. Vanilla Raspberry. Mocha.

You stopped beside the table.

“Do you really want to try out this much?”

“It’s seven slices,” Mayu said.

“That is too many slices.”

“There is no such thing,” she replied, taking the seat nearest the tray.

Rin sat beside her and loosened his sleeves slightly, as if preparing for serious work.

“You’re both taking this too seriously.”

“It’s our wedding cake,” Mayu said, pointing a fork at you. “Sit down.”

You obeyed, which annoyed you more than it should have.

The consultant gave a brief explanation about flavor pairings, fillings, frostings, and customization options before stepping away.

A moment later, she returned carrying a tray of sample cake toppers.

They were small figurines arranged in different poses, standing hand in hand, dancing, embracing, one with the groom carrying the bride, another with both laughing as though porcelain could improvise joy.

Only one detail remained constant through all of them.

A man in a suit and a woman in white.

A sigh slipped out before you could stop it, not loud enough to draw attention, not dramatic enough to be questioned. You could have said anything, instead you just exhaled again and looked away.

Mayu noticed anyway.

Her eyes flicked toward you for half a second, “Pick one,” she said.

The consultant, sensing the shift in tone, took a very careful step backward. Rin stayed where he was, hands loosely folded, watching without interrupting.

You looked at the tray of toppers again.

All of them were the same idea repeated in slightly different costumes. The same ending, rearranged into poses that pretended variation meant choice.

“Wha—Why me?” you asked, the words stumbling out of your lips.

Mayu frowned slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.

“Your opinion matters,” she said. “That’s why we brought you along.”

The room went strangely quiet after that, even the low music drifting in from the front of the bakery seemed to recede.

You stared at her.

She said it casually, almost impatiently, the way she said things she considered self-evident. As if she had merely explained why sugar was sweet or why rain was wet.

Your opinion matters.

If she had said it years ago, on some ordinary afternoon when the stakes were smaller, it might have felt warm. But here, with wedding cake samples between you and her fiance seated at her side, it felt like being handed something delicate after it had already broken.

You reached forward then and picked up the simplest one. The couple standing side by side, almost identical height, no dramatic lean, no grand gesture, only standing together in a way that looked more relaxed than tense.

“This one.”

Mayu leaned forward to inspect it.

“That one looks boring,” she said immediately.

“It’s calm,” you replied.

“It looks like they’re waiting at a bus stop.”

Rin took the figurine gently from your hand and turned it once between his fingers, considering it with more seriousness than porcelain deserved.

“I like it,” he said. “It feels simple.”

Mayu looked between the two of you, then narrowed her eyes.

“That’s two votes,” you said.

“That is not how this works.”

“It should be,” Rin answered lightly.

She huffed, then reached for another topper. This one had the groom dipping the bride backward in a dramatic pose you’d only see in movies that suggested either romance or a lower back injury.

“Here, this one’s eye-catching.” 

Rin laughed quietly and took the second topper from her hand, setting it beside the simpler one for comparison. He studied both with the same measured attention he gave everything, as if no choice was too small to deserve thought.

“The first one feels more natural,” he said. “This one feels staged.”

“It’s a cake topper,” Mayu replied. “Its entire purpose is to be staged for everyone to see.”

“That may be true,” he said, smiling faintly, “but staged things often feel forced.”

Mayu opened her mouth, then paused. She glanced at the two figurines again.

You watched her expression change in small increments, annoyance giving way to consideration. She always did that when she was close to agreeing with someone and hated it.

“I still think the dramatic one is prettier,” she said at last.

“Whatever,” you chuckled, showing emotion for what felt like the first time since you got here. “I’ll go back out front and look at other cakes. Just tell me if you made a decision.”

You pushed your chair back before either of them could answer.

“Running away already?” Mayu asked.

“Just giving you the freedom to choose things for your wedding, I’ll say what I think when you two are done.” you said, hand raising up to wave at them dismissively as you walked out.

You once again stood in the middle of the baker where the different pastries and sweets were behind glass like museum displays.

The same cake that caught your eye earlier, still stayed where you saw it earlier and still with the name you could barely pronounce correctly even if you tried. You leaned closer to the glass, looking at the chocolate that covered the top the rolls that gave it a rather unique shape and then your eyes glanced over at the two pieces of white chocolate picked and shaped to look like two swans meeting at the center of a river.

“Are you interested in anything, sir?” 

Another attendant’s voice came from your side, startling you into place. You turned to look and saw them in the clean apron the other employee wore, they were a younger woman, maybe just an apprentice.

“No,” you said. “I was just reading the price and feeling insulted.”

The young attendant blinked, then smiled politely in the way employees did when unsure whether a customer was joking.

“It’s one of our more popular items,” they said. “The Gateau Debord.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It is French, and not a lot of shops sell it.”

“Makes sense why I’ve only heard of it today.”

They let out a small laugh before catching themselves and explaining what it was made of, from the layers, fillings, and other names of ingredients that flew over your head.

“Maybe it’s more expensive than I thought.”

Their laughter came out easier this time. 

From the doorway that led to the back of the store, Mayu could see glimpses of you and the attendant. For what felt like the first time she’d invited you to go with them, she saw you smiling as if there was no actual weight on your shoulders at all, as if there wasn’t a hint of annoyance in your voice whenever you answered.

Her heart grew lighter.

Yet, she couldn’t help but remember all of the other times she’d seen you smile, it might’ve been in the millions at this point and she could still remember most of them, all from different points in time, when you two walked home from school, when you talked about the one teacher you hated the guts of and even then in a more simpler time inside of a different bakery where you bought her a slice when she was sulking over a bad grade.

“It’s one test,” you had said then, setting your bag down across from her.

“I feel humiliated,” Mayu replied, arms folded on the café table. “I missed one question because I changed the answer at the last second. I hate myself.”

“You got an eighty-seven.”

“I could have had a ninety.”

“You need to worry about other things or none at all.”

She ignored that with dignity.

Minutes later, you came back carrying a slice of strawberry shortcake and set it in front of her.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“You are dramatic.”

“I’m devastated.”

“You can be devastated while eating.”

She stared at the cake as if considering whether grief allowed dessert before she took a bite.

The change in her expression had been immediate and a complete opposite of what she had.

You had laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink.

Something about the moment back then was engraved within her. The sight of your eyes curling up and the lines on your face appearing as you failed to contain your laughter shifted itself inside of her mind as a memory and the sound of your laughter landing somewhere in her heart.

“Would you like to choose from the samples?”

The voice of the attendee brought her out of her thoughts and back into the back end of the store by Rin’s side.

“Oh—sorry, I spaced out.”

“Thinking about something?” Rin asked quietly.

Mayu looked at him for a second, then down at the two cake toppers still sitting between them.

“Nothing important,” she said automatically.

Rin did not challenge it. He only gave the small, patient nod of someone who knew people often needed room before honesty. Then he picked up a fork and cut a piece from the vanilla raspberry sample.

“You should try this one again,” he said. “You liked it first.”

“No, I—” she started, shaking her head, “I think I’ll take this one.” 

Her hand nudged one of the plates closer to the attendant.

The attendant glanced down at the label, then back up with a polite smile.

“The strawberry shortcake?”

“Yes,” she said after a beat. “That one.”

The attendant made a note on her clipboard and stepped aside.

Rin looked at the plate, then at Mayu.

“I thought you said that was too ordinary.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You disliked it ten minutes ago.”

“I can dislike things and then stop disliking them,” she replied.

“That sounds like you don’t trust your judgement.” he nudged her side with his elbow.

“No, maybe I don’t trust yours.” she joked.

Rin smiled faintly, but his eyes lingered on her a moment longer than required

Mayu picked up her fork and cut a neat piece from the slice. When she tasted it, something in her shoulders eased before she could stop it.

It was lighter than the others, too sweet, or maybe too familiar.

She swallowed and set the fork down.

“Well?” Rin asked.

“It’s good.”

“That's it, really?”

“It’s cake, Rin, not some grand art piece.”

He laughed quietly.

Across the room, you were still near the display case. The young attendant had shown you something on a menu card, and you leaned in with exaggerated seriousness as if negotiating a treaty over pastries.

Mayu watched you smile again.

There it was, that same crooked smile that always appeared a second before laughter. The one she had seen after school, on train platforms, in convenience stores at midnight, across library tables, under umbrellas, over cups of cheap coffee and shared desserts.

The one that had become so common in her life she had mistaken seeing it every day.

The attendant returned. “Would you like us to prepare more samples of the strawberry shortcake for comparison with fillings?”

Mayu opened her mouth, but Rin answered first.

“Yes, please.” he then looked at her.

“You don’t have to choose the one that looks the best,” he said mildly. “You can choose the one you actually want.”

The sentence was simple enough, it should have only stayed about cake.

Instead, it landed somewhere deeper and far less convenient.

Mayu looked down at the slice again.

Then, without meaning to, toward the front of the bakery where you stood laughing with someone else as if the world had briefly become lighter.

For reasons she could not name, she suddenly wanted to know what had made you laugh.

Mayu walked out of the back after a short while Rin trailed slowly behind her. She held a small paper bag that had a slice of strawberry cheesecake inside of a container.

You were still at the display counter, speaking with the young attendant from earlier while studying another pastry with exaggerated seriousness.

“And this one is matcha flavored, down to its filling.”

“Here I thought it only belonged to coffee.” you replied, brows raising up slightly.

“Believe me, it's more of our popular flavors. You can find it on most sweets today,” 

Mayu stopped a few feet away and watched.

You looked easier here than you had beside her all afternoon. Your shoulders were loose. Your mouth kept threatening a smile and succeeding. There was none of that sharpened tone you had worn around wedding samples and floral arrangements like badly fitted clothing.

Something prickled under her ribs.

“You seem busy,” she said.

You turned, startled enough to be honest for half a second before your expression reset.

“Just learning more about cake flavors,” you said. “Apparently matcha is more than just a hint of grass.”

The young attendant lowered her eyes, smiling to herself.

Mayu stepped closer, the paper bag swinging lightly from her hand.

“Have you been bothering the staff this whole time?”

“Hey, they approached me first.” you replied, eyes glancing down to the paper bag. “See, that you finally made up your mind.” 

The young attendant took a careful half-step back and began rearranging napkins that did not need rearranging.

You nodded toward the bag. “What did you pick?”

Mayu held it a little closer to herself instead of answering immediately.

“She picked strawberry cheesecake,” Rin answered before she could answer herself.

Your expression changed in a way so slight most people would have missed it. Mayu did not.

Instead of saying anything about it, she offered the bag to you.

You looked at it, then at her hand, then back at her face.

“What?”

“Take it,” Mayu said.

A small crease formed between your brows. “Why?”

“Because you walked out of the room before you could taste anything,” she answered, “and as thanks for coming with us.” the words followed softly after.

You kept looking at the bag as if it might contain a second, more suspicious explanation.

Mayu extended her hand farther. “Take it before I reconsider.”

You accepted the bag at last, fingers brushing the paper handles rather than her hand with almost comical care.

“Thanks, I guess.” You peeked inside, then looked back up.

“That’s all we have to do here and we have one more place to go,” Mayu said after the silence that settled momentarily.

“I’ll go get the car started,” Rin continued.

He gave the three of you a small nod, then headed toward the entrance with the same steady composure he seemed to carry everywhere.

The young attendant, sensing the private gravity that had replaced the earlier banter, excused herself with admirable instincts and disappeared toward the kitchen.

That left only you and Mayu standing by the display case, pastries gleaming uselessly between you.

You held the paper bag by its handles, still looking faintly suspicious of it.

“One more place?” you asked.

Mayu nodded. “My wedding dress.”

You stared at her, the paper bag in your hand seemed to gain weight by the second.

“Your what?”

“My wedding dress,” Mayu repeated, as if clarifying store hours. “For the final fitting, see if there should be any minor changes. Nothing dramatic.”

“Are you sure you want me there?” you asked, the words leaving your lips faster than you could stop it.Mayu frowned at your hesitation, not offended yet, only puzzled by it.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I don’t want to see you in the dress where you’ll offer your future to another man.

Because I don’t want to see you in the dress you’ll walk toward him in while I stand somewhere polite and irrelevant.

Because there are some kinds of beauty that feel too much like loss when they were never yours to begin with.

None of that made it past your teeth.

You looked down at the paper bag in your hand as though the strawberry cheesecake might provide legal counsel.

“I just mean,” you said carefully, “isn’t that usually something you bring people who are helpful? Family, bridesmaids, even your own—”

The words cut cleanly across your excuse.

“I want you there too.”

For a moment, even the bakery seemed to pause. The soft hum of refrigeration units, the clink of trays from the kitchen, the low music drifting from hidden speakers all receded into something distant and unimportant.

You looked at her.

Mayu stood exactly as she always did when saying something she considered obvious, chin slightly lifted, eyes steady, impatience hiding whatever softness had slipped out by accident.

“I just want you to see it too.”

You forgot, briefly, how to arrange your expression.

Mayu seemed unaware of what she had done, or perhaps she was aware and pretending not to be, which had always been one of her more advanced talents. She stood there with that same stubborn steadiness, paper-thin impatience covering something warmer underneath.

“Everbody has seen it already,” she continued. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

Something struck you then.

It arrived so suddenly it almost felt physical, a sharp knock somewhere beneath the ribs.

From all the years you had known Mayu, from classrooms and train rides and convenience store dinners and arguments that somehow became routine, you would never have believed she could be this cruel.

Mayu was not vicious. She was not careless in the obvious ways. She did not enjoy hurting people.

No, this was the older, stranger kind.

The cruelty of sincerity.
The cruelty of asking honestly for something she had no idea would cost you.

She wanted you there and she meant it, thinking that meaning was enough.

And maybe to her, it was.

You stared at her while she waited for your answer, still composed, still certain she was being too generous by including you.

She had no idea she was holding the knife by the handle and offering you the blade.

The bell above the bakery’s door rang again.

“The car’s all cool and ready, should we go?” Rin stood by the open door, one hand resting on the handle, sunlight spilling around him from the street outside.

There were moments in life when honesty strutted to the front of everything else, dramatic and ready to show itself, ready to confess everything. This was not one of them. Once again, honesty took one look at the circumstances and hid itself somewhere behind your heart.

“Do I even have a choice?” You tightened your grip on the paper bag.

Mayu’s mouth twitched. “If it were up to me, no.”

Yours betrayed you with a faint twitch of its own.

“Then this hardly feels voluntary.”

“It isn’t.”

She said it with such plain certainty that a short laugh escaped you before you could stop it. The sound seemed to surprise both of you.

From the doorway, Rin watched the exchange with quiet amusement.

“If we are, we should get going before traffic gets worse.” 

He held the door wider.

You looked once at the street beyond him, bright and open in the late afternoon sun. It would have been easy to walk the other direction, easy to invent an excuse, easy to protect yourself with distance, with errands, with cowardice dressed as usefulness elsewhere.

Instead, you looked back at Mayu.

She waited without softening, no pleading, no apology for asking. It was that stubborn certainty that had bulldozed through your life for years and somehow always expected you to remain standing afterward.

“Fine.” You sighed.

“Good,” she said immediately, as if the matter had already been settled ten minutes ago.

Rin stepped aside so the two of you could pass.

Mayu moved first. You followed, still carrying the cheesecake and as you passed Rin, he leaned slightly closer.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you can still run.”

You glanced at Mayu ahead of you, already walking toward the car without checking whether you were behind her because she assumed you would be.

“No,” you said. “I really can’t.”

Rin’s smile turned gentler, as if he understood more than he intended to.

The tailoring shop was exactly how you had imagined it and somehow worse.

Gowns lined the walls in soft rows of white and ivory, some draped in protective covers, others displayed openly on mannequins, satin caught the light in colorful hues, lace climbed sleeves and collars in delicate patterns that looked too smooth to trust to human hands, and beads and pearls flashed whenever someone moved nearby. Every direction contained some new version of elegance and formality.

The air carried the scent of pressed fabric, clean cotton, steamed silk, and something faintly floral that seemed designed to come with the other designs.

You were left outside of the changing room with Rin, still holding the paper bag, while the two of you drifted through opposite sides of the shop as Mayu changed.

Rin paused beside a display of tailored suits, fingers brushing the cuff of one coat. He looked as though he belonged in places like this, calm among expensive things, unthreatened by what could cling onto him.

You, meanwhile, stood near a mannequin wearing a simple suit with nothing special and nothing fancy but it stood on the fine line between being formal and being an accountant.

“Thanks for going with us,” Rin’s voice came from your side so suddenly that you froze in place.

“I—yeah, it’s no problem.”

“It’s probably hard but still, thanks. I’m sure Mayu appreciates it a lot.”

“Hard?”

“Given someone like yourself, you seem to be very busy.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“Busy,” you repeated. “Right.”

Rin’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, as though he sensed something in your tone.

“I only meant that you must have your own life,” he said. “Work, responsibilities, other plans. Yet you keep making time whenever she asks.”

You let out a breath through your nose and looked back at the mannequin beside you.

“I’ve known her for as long as I could remember, it’s pretty hard to say no to someone like that.”

Rin chuckled softly in his exhale.

“I could see that. I mean, it’s pretty evident in the way she talks about you.”

You turned to look at him fully.

“The way she talks about me?”

Rin nodded once, as if he had said something mild and not casually dropped a lit match into dry grass.

“Might just be her badmouthing me.”

“It is usually fond,” he said. “Though sometimes disguised as criticism.”

“Wasn’t expecting anything less.”

“When she mentions other people, it’s usually short. Functional. Names, schedules, inconveniences. When she mentions you, there are stories.” He smiled faintly.

Rin continued with the same annoyingly calm tone he had.

“She tells me about arguments you had years ago as if they happened last week. She remembers things you said that you probably forgot before dinner. She complains about habits of yours no one else would notice unless they had been watching for a very long time.”

“Didn’t think she’d remember useless details,” you said with a weak breath.

“They weren’t useless to her, at least that’s what I think.”

You went still.

The tailoring shop continued around you as though nothing had changed. A consultant crossed the room carrying a veil over both arms like ceremonial fog. Somewhere in the back, pins rattled in a tin. Soft music drifted from hidden speakers with expensive confidence.

They weren’t useless to her.

You looked down at the paper bag in your hand.

“You’re making her sound more generous than she is,” you said at last, and meant it jokingly.

Rin shrugged lightly. “Maybe.”

“You say maybe the way people do when trying to seem polite.” You let out a short laugh and leaned against the display platform beside the mannequin.

“I forget things she says all the time,” you muttered.

“I doubt that.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No,” Rin said gently. “I don’t think I would.”

You glanced at him.

He wasn’t smug. That would have been easier to dismiss. He only looked thoughtful, as if he was slowly figuring you out.

“You really enjoy making strangers uncomfortable.”

“We’re not strangers.”

“We barely know each other.”

“Barely is still progress.”

Your mouth twitched almost into a smile before your gaze drifted toward the closed curtain.

“She talks about me that much?”

Rin followed your eyes.

“About you directly and about you indirectly,” he corrected. “There is a difference.”

You frowned. “That sounds worse.”

He shook his head.

“If she is annoyed at work, somehow it becomes a story about how you once handled something badly in school. If she sees a restaurant she likes, she mentions whether you would hate their best seller. If something breaks, she remembers how you used to insist you could fix things and somehow make it worse.”

“It must be annoying hearing my name all the time.” you replied.

“It isn't,” he shook his head again. “It gives me an idea of the kind of life she had before we met and who she grew up with.”

You looked at him carefully then, searching for the hidden edge.

“You’re very relaxed about all this,” you said.

“Abou what?”

“The fact your soon-to-be wife narrates half her life through stories always involving another man.”

Rin considered that with real thought, one hand slipping into his pocket.

“I suppose I never really saw you as ‘another man.’” he laughed quietly.

“I mean you’re a part of her at this point,” he clarified. “Like a hometown street, or a person she hated, or a song she knows each and every lyric to. You’re built into many of her memories. Being jealous of that would be like resenting her entirely.”

You could’ve brushed it off with sarcasm, with what you’ve been using to keep you afloat up to this point, but you couldn’t.

Before you could come up with anything, the curtain rustled.

Both of you turned instinctively.

A consultant stepped out first, smiling in professional anticipation.

Then Mayu followed.

She wore ivory silk that caught the light that hung above. The dress was elegant without trying to be grand, fitted through the waist before falling cleanly to the floor. Lace traced her shoulders in fine patterns, and her hair had been pinned loosely back for the fitting, exposing the line of her neck.

You had known her in school uniforms, raincoats, sweatpants, oversized hoodies, wrinkled office clothes, pajamas during late-night emergencies, and one unforgettable period where she insisted a bucket hat suited her.

None of those prepared you for this.

Mayu, suddenly self-conscious under the silence, frowned.

“Well?” she asked. “Why are both of you staring like witnesses?”

Rin smiled first.

“You look beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes instantly, which meant the compliment was acknowledged.

Then her gaze moved to you.

You opened your mouth and nothing came out.

The consultant looked delighted. Rin looked knowingly. Mayu looked annoyed in the precise way she did when she wanted out from you.

“Well?” she repeated, asking you directly.

You tightened your grip on the paper bag, still hanging absurdly from your hand.

“Are you sure you wanna go with that?” you said jokingly, “There are still a couple of dresses you could try out.”

“What?” Mayu’s expression changed immediately.

“Relax,” you spoke again with a smile growing across your lips, “You look. . .nice.”

Mayu stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind her eyes.

“Nice?” she repeated quietly.

Rin shifted his gaze away, giving the room more space than it seemed to have a moment ago. The consultant, sensing tension she had no training manual for, lowered her clipboard and waited.

“I meant you look good.” you cleared your throat. 

“That’s it? ‘Nice’ is all you have to say?” Her voice was calm, but there was something sharper beneath it, something closer to disappointment.

You looked at the paper bag in your hand, then back at her.

“You know I’m not good at this.”

“At what?” Mayu asked.

“Words,” You looked away briefly before drifting back to her.

“Then just say whatever comes to mind first,” 

You swallowed a breath.

I’ve loved you ever since.

I’m sorry for being a coward.

The room seemed to narrow around those two unsaid sentences.

You looked at Mayu standing there in ivory silk, waiting with that familiar impatience she used whenever she cared too much to appear vulnerable.

Then you did what you had always done, you reached for something safer.

“You look like yourself,” you said quietly.

Her brows knit together at once. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“It does.” Your voice came steadier now, though it cost you. “Everyone else is going to say beautiful. Elegant. Perfect. They’ll say the dress suits you.” You said as you kept your eyes on her.

“But when you walked out,” you said, “it didn’t feel like I was looking at a dress.”

Silence settled across the shop.

“It just felt like you.”

Mayu’s expression changed so slightly most people would have missed it. The tension in her mouth loosened. Something uncertain flickered behind her eyes.

Rin looked down at the floor, giving privacy the only way strangers can.

“That,” Mayu said after a moment, voice quieter now, “was still the strangest thing you could’ve said.”

“It was the best I had.”

“You usually have worse.”

A breath of shared laughter moved through the room, thin and fragile, but enough.

The consultant recovered first. “Would you like to step onto the platform so we can check the hem?”

Mayu didn’t move immediately, she was still looking at you.

“You really think it looks alright?” she asked.

There were dozens of answers available, safer ones, lighter ones, cowardly ones.

You chose a small part of the truth because saying its entirety still felt like thorns lodged in between your lips.

“I think,” you said, “whoever waits for you at the end of the aisle is going to forget how to breathe for a second.”

Rin went still for a second.

Mayu finally looked over, “I think he just did.”

He let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, not quite anything that could settle the moment.

You stayed where you were, the paper bag still hanging from your hand, your grip tighter than it needed to be like it had been for a while.

The consultant stepped in again, gently reclaiming the moment with professional precision. “If you could step up, we’ll just check the length and the fit along the waist.”

Mayu nodded and moved, the fabric shifting softly with her, catching light in soft waves. She stepped onto the platform, lifting the hem slightly as instructed.

Rin approached a little closer then, attentive in the way he always was. He said something low to the consultant, something practical, minor adjustments to the details that belonged to the future he was building with her.

From the platform, Mayu glanced at you again.

“Could you take a photo of us? My mom wants to see the dress with everything fixed.”

For a second, you thought you had misheard her.

“Me?” you asked, because dignity sometimes survives only as stalling.

Mayu gave you a look that suggested the room contained no one else capable of operating a phone.

“Yes, you.”

She reached for the small clutch set on a nearby chair and handed you her phone. Your fingers brushed hers for the briefest moment before she pulled back.

Rin stepped beside her on the platform without hesitation, one hand settling lightly at the small of her back before she wrapped her arm around his.

You hated how quick that was.

The consultant beamed. “Lovely. Just a little closer, please.”

Rin obliged.

Mayu remained still for half a beat before allowing herself to lean the slightest fraction toward him.

You lifted the phone.

The screen framed them neatly.

“Ready?” you asked, voice sounding how it usually was which was a miracle in its own.

Mayu looked into the camera first, then at the last second her eyes flicked to you instead of the lens.

Rin smiled properly, warm and composed.

You pressed the shutter.

Once and then twice and for a third time because your hand needed something to do.

“There,” you said, lowering the phone.

The consultant asked to see them immediately and began praising angles no one cared about.

“Let me see.” Mayu stepped down from the platform and came toward you, dress gathered carefully in one hand.

You handed the phone back.

She stood close enough for you to smell the clean scent of steamed fabric and whatever perfume had survived the fitting room.

Her thumb moved across the screen, breath gasping heavier at each one.

“Should we also take a picture of you three?” The voice of the attendant slipped through.

“No,” you said too quickly. “I mean, it’s fine. It’s not really necessary.” 

Mayu and Rin looked at each other before he shrugged, “I don’t mind.”

You opened your mouth to object again, but Mayu had already turned to the consultant.

“Could you?”

“Absolutely, not a problem.” the woman said, delighted by a complication she mistook for charm.

Before you could retreat, Mayu took your wrist along with Rin’s with her other hand and pulled the both of you onto the platform on both of her sides.

Then she released your wrist as if nothing had happened.

The three of you arranged yourselves with the graceless uncertainty of people who did not belong in the same photograph.

You hovered half a step away, trying to create distance that looked accidental.

Mayu noticed immediately.

“Closer,” she said.

“I’m fine over here.” you replied without hesitation.

You turned to the camera, not noticing the sigh that left her lips.

She once again wrapped her arm around Rin’s as if she had already done it a million times before grabbing onto yours to pull both of you in.

One sharp tug and suddenly you were close enough to feel the cool brush of satin against your sleeve, close enough to smell the faint perfume at her wrist, close enough for the entire situation to become structurally unsound.  

You did not trust yourself enough to turn your head so you looked straight at the phone in the consultant’s hands and held still.

And without much further objection, the moment was captured into memory.

The consultant lowered the phone with a satisfied smile.

“Lovely,” she said. “One more, just in case.”

Before you could protest, she raised it again.

You kept your gaze forward, jaw set, every muscle committed to hide any piece of emotion from showing. Rin stood steady on her other side, composed as ever. Mayu remained between the two of you with the widest smile on her face.

The phone clicked once more, then it was over.

Mayu let go of your arm first.

She stepped down from the platform carefully, gathering the skirt in one hand, while Rin offered his arm to steady her over the small step. She accepted it without thought.

You looked away before that simple gesture could become something else in your mind.

The consultant returned the phone. “You three look wonderful.”

She took it and began scrolling through the photos in silence. 

Rin approached the attendant, probably to discuss other things while Mayu walked back to you.

For a moment, you let the silence run its course.

Then Mayu turned the phone slightly toward you.

“You blinked in this one.”

“I hope it ruins the entire set.”

“It doesn’t.” She swiped again. “You just look irritated.”

“I was irritated.”

“I know.”

She moved to the next photo.

In that one, Rin stood straight and composed, Mayu smiling between you both, and you looked as though you were trying to keep a breath in.

She stared at it longer than the others.

“You could have smiled,” she said.

“You could have warned me.”

“I did. I said closer.”

“That wasn’t a warning.”

A faint breath escaped her, almost a laugh, though it never fully became one.

She swiped again, this time she stopped.

Your eyes dropped to the screen before you could stop yourself.

The three of you stood framed in clean white light. Rin standing calm and Mayu bright and centered. You were rigid at her side, but your head turned a fraction toward her, so slight it might have happened by accident.

“Delete that,” you quickly said. 

“No.” She stepped back before your hand could reach it, lifting the phone just out of range. 

“Mayu, it looks bad.”

“So what? I like it.” The answer came too quickly, as if she had already decided it before you spoke.

You lowered your hand.

Mayu looked down at the screen again.

In the photo, Rin stood straight beside her. You stood on her other side, shoulders stiff, mouth set, trying to appear detached, but your eyes had betrayed you. They rested on her with a quiet intensity that no posture could hide.

“Fine, if you say so.” You sighed, voice softening. “Just don't post it anywhere.” 

Her thumb hovered over the screen, tracing nothing, eyes still fixed on the photo as though it contained more than the three figures standing inside it.

“I wasn’t planning to,” she said at last.

You glanced toward Rin across the room. He was speaking with the consultant now, nodding politely at measurements and dates and adjustments that belonged to a future already organized for him. He looked comfortable there, part of the scene in a way you never could be.

“Good,” you said.

Mayu kept looking at the picture.

“It doesn’t look bad,” she said quietly.

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“You look happy,” you replied. “He looks like he belongs in a magazine. I look like I’m struggling to keep still.”

That earned a small sound from her, almost amused.

“You always think you look worse than you do.”

“I look exactly as bad as I think.”

She shook her head once, then locked the phone and lowered it to her side.

“That’s not what I meant.”

You knew better than to ask what she had meant. Questions with Mayu often opened doors you had no business entering.

The consultant called her name from across the room.

“One minute,” she answered, but her eyes stayed on you.

There was a pause then, thin and quiet.

“You know,” she said, “you didn’t have to come today.”

You gave a short laugh. “You asked.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“It usually is with you.”

Her expression shifted, something unreadable moving through it.

“I mean it,” she said. “You could’ve said no.”

You looked past her toward the rows of dresses, toward the mirrors catching strangers at flattering angles.

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Because you always ask.

Because some part of me is still stupid enough to show up whenever you reach out.

Because I'm still hopelessly in love with you.

You settled, as always, for something smaller.

“You needed another opinion,” you said.

She stared at you for a long moment, then nodded once in the slow way people do when they know they’ve been lied to but don’t intend to argue.

“Right,” she said.

Rin approached then, gentle and composed, carrying the ease of someone who had never needed to brace himself before entering a room.

“They’re going to pin the hem once more,” he said to her. Then to you, “Sorry to keep taking your afternoon.”

You answered with a nod, a dismissive expression crossing your face for a moment.

The attendant beckoned again.

“Be right back.” Mayu said before picking up her skirt and walking away.

Rin nodded at you once before following her, leaving you in the middle of the platform.

You remained where you were for a moment longer, as if movement required permission.

Around you, the shop resumed its careful rhythm. Pins clicked into trays. Hangers hung onto metal rails. Somewhere near the front, another attendant laughed softly at something no one else needed to hear. 

You stepped down from the platform at last.

The paper bag was still in your hand, its handles twisted from how tightly you had been holding them. You loosened your grip and found faint creases pressed into your palm.

Across the room, Mayu stood before a mirror while the consultant knelt at the hem, gathering silk in practiced fingers. Rin stood beside them, listening, occasionally answering, occasionally smiling.

Without much further thought, you slipped away to the front of the store. You sat on a lone seat, eyes still briefly at them for moments at a time.

Mayu was still facing the mirror, chin lifted slightly while the consultant adjusted the dress. Rin stood beside her, saying something that made her shake her head in quiet amusement.

Once again, you had found yourself watching her from a respectable distance that you put yourself in like plenty of times before.

Far enough that no one could accuse you of wanting too much.

Far enough that if she turned, you could pretend you had only been looking past her.

Far enough to make yourself believe you still have some semblance of dignity left when there was seemingly none.

With a painful swallow, you waited until they were finished.

You walked out into the cold breeze as you stepped from the store.

Traffic rolled past in steady lines, headlights beginning to wake against the dimming afternoon. People moved around you with practiced purpose, coats drawn close, phones in hand, conversations already halfway finished. Across the street, someone lifted an arm and called for a taxi.

You stood on the sidewalk for a moment, the shop warm and bright behind you, the city cool and indifferent ahead.

Behind you, Rin and Mayu followed.

Rin moved past you without another word and headed for the car. You watched him for a moment as he opened the driver's seat and started it.

Mayu cleared her throat behind you.

You turned slightly.

Mayu stood a few steps away, coat buttoned, hair loosened from the fitting, looking more like herself now than she had in the white dress under showroom lights. In one hand she held a cream envelope.

“I can just ride the bus home,” you said, the words slipping out with a tired breath. “No need to give me a ride.”

“Actually,” she said, lifting the envelope slightly, “I wanted to give you something.”

For a second, you only looked at it. 

A heavy paper with clean edges, your name written across the front in handwriting you recognized immediately. 

Your stomach sank before your mind caught up.

Mayu stepped closer and held it out.

“We started sending them out in the morning,” she said. “But then I thought it’d be strange to mail it.”

You didn’t take it right away, “You brought it with you?” you asked. 

“I knew you were going with us so why not give it to you personally?”

There was nothing sharp in how she said it. That made it worse. 

Slowly, you reached out and accepted the envelope. 

Your name stared back at you, then so did the place and then finally, the date.

It was a week from now.

“The banquet hall is really pretty,” she added, a little softer this time. “There’s this big chandelier in the middle that shines brighter than everything else inside.”

You let out a small, humorless breath.

“Yeah,” you said. “Sounds like your kind of place.”

She studied your face, searching for something you weren’t planning to give her.

“You don’t have to come if—”

“I’ll be there.”

The answer landed quicker than either of you expected.

You shifted your gaze away from her, toward the road, toward anything that didn’t have her expression attached to it.

“I mean,” you added, voice flattening out, “you went through the trouble of inviting me. Be a waste if I didn’t show up.”

“That’s not why I—”

“I know,” you cut in, just lightly enough to pass as casual, just sharp enough to end the thought. “It’s your wedding. I’m supposed to be there, right? Childhood friend obligation or whatever.”

“It’s not an obligation.”Mayu’s grip tightened slightly around the strap of her bag.

You glanced back at her then, something faint and crooked pulling at the corner of your mouth.

“Sure,” you said. “It’s not like you’ve been dragging me along to your preparations.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m kidding,” you said, though nothing in your tone bothered pretending to match the word. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke then you tapped the envelope lightly against your palm.

“I’ll be there,” you repeated, quieter now. “Wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Mayu held your gaze for a second longer, like she was trying to decide if that meant anything more than what you said.

“…Okay,” she answered.

Behind her, Rin leaned slightly out of the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the wheel.

“Mayu,” he called gently.

She turned halfway, then back to you again.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”

“I’ll take the bus.” You shook your head once.

Another pause, another moment where something almost formed and didn’t.

“Alright.” she nodded.

She stepped back, turning toward the car, the distance between you closing and then widening again in the same motion.

You stayed where you were.

Your eyes watched the passenger door open then close before the car turned into motion. And just like that, they were part of the traffic.

You stood there a while longer, the envelope still in your hand, your name written neatly across something that didn’t belong to you anymore.

Around you, the city kept moving.

Because whether you like it or not,

It always did.

That night, you had trouble sleeping.

Your apartment was quiet in the irritating way only late nights could be, where every small sound became louder than it should have been. The refrigerator hummed like it had its own voice, the pipes clicked somewhere in the walls and a car passed outside and faded into distance as if even strangers didn't know how to leave properly.

You lay on your back with one arm over your eyes, then on your side, then on the other side, then back again, performing the same ritual of pretending movement counted as progress.

A breath left you then.

An image flashed itself in your mind, without regard for whatever you were feeling. 

Mayu in that silky ivory dress.

Clear as if you were still standing in the shop. The line of her shoulders under lace. The way the fabric caught light when she moved.

Her hair pinned back, exposing the shape of her neck you had spent years pretending not to notice. The faint uncertainty in her face when she first stepped out and asked how she looked as though your answer mattered more than it should have.

You pressed the heel of your palm harder against your eyes.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered to the dark.

She was getting married in a week and you were wallowing in bed.

The girl who you had spent your whole life with was getting married and you couldn't do anything.

The girl you'd love for half of your life was getting married and somehow, someway you still hadn't told her how you felt.

Because you were a coward.

That word had followed you for years. 

It had stood beside you in high school when she cried outside the gym after some boy made her feel small, and you only offered her your jacket instead of saying I’d never do that to you.

It sat with you in college when she called late at night just to hear a familiar voice, and you spoke to her for three hours about nothing except the one thing that mattered.

It moved into every apartment you’d ever rented. Rode in every cab after every confession that ended in a maybe. Waited through birthdays, breakups, promotions, holidays, all the seasons where something could have been said and wasn’t.

Coward.

The pressed itself onto you, not dramatic enough to lose her in one grand tragedy, but just enough to lose her slowly.

You turned onto your side and stared at the wall.

Maybe if you had said it years ago, everything would be different.

Maybe she would have laughed.

Maybe she would have kissed you.

Maybe she would have said she knew already and wondered what took so long.

Maybe none of it would have worked.

But who knows what would've happened?

You sure didn't.

Pushing yourself up from the bed, you turned to your nightstand where the invitation sat mocking you.

You picked it up and stared at your name written across the front in her handwriting.

That was the cruel touch, really.She had written your name herself.

Carefully, too, in balanced strokes, familiar curves. The same handwriting that once left notes in your textbooks, shopping lists on your fridge, passive-aggressive reminders on birthday cards.

Now it invites you to watch her marry someone else.

You opened it again though you already knew every word inside.

Date, venue, ceremony, and the reception to follow.

As if there had ever been doubt the suffering would include refreshments.

Your thumb rubbed over the embossed edge until it bent slightly.

You stopped immediately and smoothed it flat again.

Even now, apparently, you were careful with things that hurt you.

You laughed once, low and tired, then sat on the edge of the bed with the card in your hands and the room around you like eyes watching from the dark.

What exactly had you been waiting for all these years?

Perfect timing?

A sign?

Her to turn to you one day and say, By the way, if you've secretly loved me since highschool, now would be ideal.

Ridiculous.

You leaned back, invitation resting against your knee.

A week from now you could wear a suit, smile politely, shake Rin’s hand, and clap while everyone celebrated efficient outcomes.

Or you could not go.

Disappear gracefully, develop a sudden illness then fake your death with moderate effort.

Neither option felt noble.

Neither felt survivable.

You looked once more at your name on the envelope.

Then said quietly into the empty room,

“If I tell you now, I become selfish.”

The silence stayed in its place.

“And if I don’t,” you added, “I stay a coward.”

The idea stayed in your mind right before you eventually fell asleep, and it was still there when sunlight slipped through your blinds the next morning.

You thought it through again while still half-awake, staring at the ceiling now made ordinary by daylight. Whether to attend. Whether to speak. Whether to drag years of carefully hidden feeling into the open and lay it at her feet like something broken but honest.

Part of you wanted it to remain where it had always lived.

Hidden inside long looks you disguised as nothing.

Inside every joke that meant more than it said.

Inside every time you showed up when she asked and pretended it was convenience.

Inside all the words you never chose.

There was a strange dignity in silence. A museum quality to it. Preserved regret under clean glass.

But you couldn’t convince yourself anymore.

Maybe because a wedding invitation was the first real deadline your heart had ever received.

Maybe because losing quietly had started to feel more pathetic than losing loudly.

Maybe because if she married him and never knew, some part of you would spend the rest of your life rewriting conversations in empty rooms.

You sat up slowly, rubbed both hands over your face, and let out a breath that felt older than you were.

You were going to tell her.

Whether it was today, tomorrow, or thirty minutes before the wedding started.

Grace had missed its chance years ago.

Now honesty would have to arrive late.

Mayu

Dialing. . .

You stared at your phone screen, patiently watching the three dots appear repeatedly.

You sat inside of your kitchen, shoulders tense, elbows on your knees, watching those three dots like they were an oracle with poor communication skills.

When the call was picked up, you immediately pressed the phone against your ear.

“Hello?” Her voice came through.

“Hey, I know it's a bit sudden but are you free today?”

She laughed on the other side, light and airy like how you've heard countless times before.

“That’s weird, I was gonna call and ask the same thing too.” 

For a second, you forgot every sentence you had prepared.

All the careful openings, the casual tone you’d rehearsed, the possibility of sounding normal, all of it scattered like papers in wind.

“You were?” you asked, because brilliance often arrives disguised as repetition.

“Yes,” Mayu said. You could hear movement on her end, drawers opening, something set down on a table. “I needed help with something.”

“Of course you do.”

“There he is,” she replied dryly. “I was worried I accidentally called someone pleasant.”

You let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh.

“What do you need help with?”

“One of the bridesmaids asked if I could pick up their dress at one of the shops in the mall, I was wondering if you could come with me. Maybe we could even pick something out for you afterwards.”

You chuckled despite trying to hold it in.

“I find it amusing that they're asking the bride herself to pick it up.”

“Hey, I wouldn't want them to miss it so I'm doing everything I can.

“Very noble of you,” you said. “I’m sure statues will be built.”

“Shut it,” she replied. “Are you coming or not?”

You leaned back in your chair, phone pressed to your ear, staring at the kitchen counter like it might convince you to stay on track.

This was not how you imagined the morning.

You had planned something dramatic in the privacy of your own head, not cinematic exactly, but close enough. Maybe over coffee, with a steady voice. Maybe asking to meet. Maybe finally saying the thing that had lived in your throat for years.

Instead, you were being invited to help retrieve another piece of clothing.

“What time?” you asked.

With unmistakable satisfaction in her voice, “So that’s a yes.”

“I’m just asking.”

“Asking because you're going.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet you're coming with me,” she said.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and looked at the ceiling like it had failed you personally.

This was the oldest trap in your life.

Mayu never pushed hard. She simply spoke as if the outcome had already been decided, then waited for the world to catch up.

“What time?” you repeated.

“Meet me at the entrance of the mall by two.” 

You glanced over at the time flashing on the microwave.

10:44.

“At least you were considerate enough to give me time for lunch.”

“Don’t sound so grateful,” she said.

You rose from the chair and wandered toward the sink, phone tucked to your ear, as if movement might disguise the fact that your pulse had not calmed once since she answered.

“You know,” you said, “most people get something back when doing other people favors.”

“Sure, what are you thinking?” then after a second, “I'll hear you out.” 

Mayu had said it lightly, probably expecting sarcasm, probably imagining you’d ask for lunch or coffee or the right to complain uninterrupted for twenty minutes.

Instead, your mind supplied one answer with violent clarity.

You.

You swallowed.

“Careful,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “You’re making open-ended offers now.”

“I said I’d hear you out,” she replied. “Not agree.”

“Smart thinking.”

“I know how you work, more than you know.”

You leaned one hand against the counter and closed your eyes.

Ask now.

Say it plainly.

Come with me today, and in return give me one honest conversation.

Tell me if there was ever anything here.

Tell me if I missed my chance or invented it entirely.

Tell me to stop loving you so I can begin the paperwork.

Instead, fear arrived dressed as humor.

“How about we head there earlier? I want lunch,” you said.

“That’s what you want?” Mayu laughed softly.

“For now.”

“You sounded like you were about to ask for something serious.”

“I am asking for something serious.”

You leaned against the counter, eyes closing for a moment.

“Fine, lunch first,” she said. “Then we can go after.”

She said something ordinary, something the two of you had done countless times before. Yet now every simple thing felt altered by the fact that there were only days left before nothing between you could remain simple again.

“What time?” you asked quietly.

“We could meet in front of the mall by noon.” 

You checked the microwave clock again.

10:46.

Two hours and fourteen minutes.

That’s enough time to shower, get dressed, rehearse in front of the mirror, abandon it before rehearsing again.

“By noon,” you repeated.

“Yes.” There was a pause on her end, the kind made when someone was deciding whether to add something. “And don’t be late.”

“I'll be there before you know it.”

You looked at the counter, at the chipped edge near the sink, at anything that was not the thought that was subtly rising again.

Say it now.

Just say it while she was a voice in your hand and not a person you could watch yourself lose.

“Mayu.”

“Mhm?”

Your throat tightened.

There it was again, another opportunity.

“I...” You stopped.

On the other end, she didn’t rush to fill the silence.

“You what?” she asked softly.

You stared at the microwave clock as if time itself might rescue you.

10:47.

“I was going to say don’t make me wait outside if you’re late.”

There was a quiet exhale from her end, a toss up between amusement and contentment.

“I won’t,” she said.

You closed your eyes.

The lie had been thin enough to see through. She knew it. You knew she knew it but still, both of you said nothing.

“Good,” you answered.

Another moment of silence settled between you.

You could hear the faint rustle of movement in her apartment, a drawer sliding shut, footsteps across a floor you had never seen but could imagine too easily. Ordinary sounds. The kind people make while continuing with their lives.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

The question came so simply it nearly broke through you.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t sound like it.”

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Your hand tightened around the phone.

Say it.

Tell her the truth for once. Tell her sleep had become impossible. Tell her every hour since the invitation had felt borrowed. Tell her you were terrified of noon because every minute with her now felt numbered.

Instead, you chose another small lie.

“I’m fine,” you said.

She was quiet long enough that you pictured her frowning.

“Alright,” she said at last, though it carried no belief.

You looked again at the clock.

10:48.

“I should get ready,” she continued.

“Right.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you hung up.

The silence stretched, through both ends of the call.

Then, softly, almost as if she regretted saying it the moment it left her mouth,

“You can still tell me things, you know.”

Your breath caught but before you could answer, the line went dead.

You remained in the kitchen with the phone against your ear, listening to the absence she left behind.

Life moved on as you stood in the middle of the mall’s front entrance, eyes drifting around every once in a while in hopes of spotting her at a distance.

The doors sighed open and shut without rest. Cold air spilled out each time, mixing with the bodies moving in and out. Families passed carrying shopping bags that swung against their knees. Teenagers crossed in clusters, loud and careless. Someone argued quietly over the phone near a pillar. Somewhere above you, a speaker played music too bright for how you felt.

You adjusted your sleeves, then your watch, then the collar you had already fixed twice. Every reflective surface became an opportunity to confirm you still looked like yourself and not a man about to make a mess of his own life.

People arrived in pairs, in groups, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder.

You arrived alone.

Your gaze caught on every woman with familiar hair, every coat in the right shade, every stride that almost matched hers until it didn’t. Each false sighting brought the same quick lift in your chest followed by the same small drop.

Ridiculous how hope could rehearse disappointment so efficiently.

You looked toward the street again.

Cars rolled by. The noon light sharpened against glass and metal. A child cried because a balloon had escaped their grasp. A vendor rearranged bottled drinks with enough care.

Then, through the moving crowd, you saw someone slow, turn, and start toward you.

Mayu.

Even at a distance, you knew the shape of her walk, the way her hair cascaded down both sides of her face and the relaxed smile she always wore that somehow made the people around blur into the background.

She crossed through the crowd with the easy certainty of someone who had never needed to search for where she belonged.

A long coat hung open over a simple top and dark trousers, nothing elaborate, nothing chosen to impress. She never needed much help from clothing. Her hair moved lightly with each step, loose around her shoulders, catching the noon light in brief strands. One hand held her bag close against her side. The other lifted once when she noticed you had already seen her.

You tried to look normal.

You failed in ways invisible to everyone except yourself.

By the time she reached you, your pulse had become embarrassingly committed to the occasion.

“Should we get something to eat?”

You nodded before the doors slipped open and you two walked through.

Eventually Mayu dragged you to a cheap fast food place on the second floor.

The kind with brightly colored plastic trays, and even brighter menu boards, and tables that had survived years of elbows, spilled drinks, and stories between people. Oil and salt lived permanently in the air. Children shouted near the corner booths. A fryer hissed somewhere behind the counter with mechanical confidence as the staff scrambled around the kitchen.

It was exactly the sort of place she liked choosing when she had other options.

“You’re getting married in a week,” you said as she studied the overhead menu. “Shouldn’t you be eating anything but fast food?”

“I am but I’m picking up a bridesmaid dress in a mall,” she replied. “Let’s not pretend my life is anywhere near glamorous.”

She ordered first, quick and certain.

You stepped up after her and asked for whatever required the least amount of thought.

When the tray arrived, she claimed a table by the railing overlooking the lower floors. People moved below in slow streams, carrying bags and children and versions of urgency that had nothing to do with you.

Mayu slid into her seat and unwrapped her burger.

“Eat up,” she said. “You got what you asked for.”

You unwrapped yours a second later, slower.

“I don’t remember asking for this specifically,” you said.

“You asked for lunch,” she corrected. “And this is lunch.”

You let out a quiet breath and picked up a fry, more to give your hands something to do than out of any real appetite.

For a while, the two of you ate in silence.

Bite after bite passed, and you finished first.

Mayu was only halfway through hers, eating at the same unhurried pace she seemed to apply to everything. You crumpled the wrapper in your hands and set it aside.

“You inhaled that,” she said.

“I was hungry.”

“Doesn’t seem like the whole truth.” She gave you a look that said she had known you too long for weak revisions.

You reached for your drink and took a sip.

Mayu took another bite, then another, watching you between them but deciding to keep quiet, as if she decided to not let push you further.

Usually she tugged at loose threads.

Today, she let them be.

You looked down at the table. Salt scattered near the tray. A folded napkin. Her phone beside her drink, screen dark. Ordinary objects arranged neatly around the fact that your chest felt anything but orderly.

You glanced back at her.

“This is new,” you said. “Feels like I don’t see you without Rin by your side.”

Mayu's lips curved up slightly, “Yeah, he’s with his parents figuring out the final preparations.”

“Right.” you nodded once, like that explained everything.

She didn’t elaborate. Just took another bite, slower this time, eyes dropping to her food instead of you.

The noise around you filled in where conversation didn’t. A chair scraped. Someone laughed too loudly behind you. A tray clattered somewhere near the counter.

You picked at a fry you hadn’t meant to leave behind.

“He’s been busy,” she added after a moment. “There’s a lot to sort out.”

“Makes sense.”

You watched her for a second longer than necessary. There was something different in the way she sat across from you now. It looked like she was more mindful of your presence than all the times before.

You leaned back slightly in your seat.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

She looked up, a small crease forming between her brows.

“That’s a strange question.”

“You’re getting married in a couple of days,” you said. “I figured all kinds of questions are allowed.”

“I’m fine.” Her gaze stayed on you, steady.

You held her eyes for a moment, then nodded again.

“Okay.”

“You don’t sound convinced.” she wiped her hands with a napkin, slower than before.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A faint exhale left her, not quite a sigh. “I’m just… tired,” she said. “There’s a lot happening all at once.”

“That part I believe.”

Her mouth curved faintly at that.

For a second, something familiar slipped back into place between you. It wasn’t the past, not exactly, but the version of it that still knew how to sit comfortably in each other’s presence.

Then it faded just as quickly.

She reached for her drink.

“We should go,” she said. “Before I lose motivation to do anything else today.”

You nodded and stood when she did.

The trays were cleared without discussion. The table left behind like nothing had been said there that mattered.

You walked beside her as she led the way out of the food court, back into the steady current of people and noise.

Escalators carried people up and down in patient loops. Storefronts flashed polished glass and seasonal sales. Perfume drifted from one entrance, coffee from another, sugar from somewhere farther ahead. Around you, everyone seemed to know exactly what they had come for.

Mayu walked half a step ahead, one hand resting on the strap of her bag, weaving through the crowd without hesitation. You followed right beside her, arm swinging slightly with every step. Every so often, you could feel your knuckle brush hers.

Each time it happened, slight and accidental, your attention snapped to it with humiliating speed.

Neither of you mentioned it.

She kept walking at the same pace, eyes forward, expression staying the same. If she noticed, she gave nothing away, that had always been one of her sharper talents.

The shop was on the third floor, tucked between a cosmetics store and a place selling polished furniture. Dresses stood in the window on headless mannequins, arranged in careful stillness. 

Mayu stopped outside and checked the message on her phone.

“She said it should already be packed,” she murmured.

You looked through the glass at racks of fabric in pale colors and soft light.

“Then this should be quick,” you said.

She didn’t say anything else, instead she slipped her phone back into her bag and pushed the door open.

A bell chimed overhead.

Inside, the store was quieter than the mall outside, softened by carpet and low music. Mirrors lined the walls. Rows of dresses stood in garment bags, tagged and waiting for lives that had not happened yet. A woman at the counter looked up with a practiced smile.

You stood by the door, watching Mayu as she talked to the woman and accepting a paper bag over the counter.

Mayu checked the receipt once, folded it, and slipped it into her bag.

“That’s done,” she said.

You nodded, pushing yourself off the wall. “Just as I thought.”

She turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back at you.

“We still need to get you something to wear.”

“I own clothes.”

“Not ones suitable for a wedding.”

“I’ve attended events before.”

She stepped out of the store without waiting for agreement.

You followed.

The mall noise rushed back in as soon as the door closed behind you. The brightness felt harsher now, like everything had been turned up slightly too high. Mayu moved with the same quiet certainty as before, but slower this time, like she was choosing where to go instead of already knowing.

“You didn’t plan this, did you?” you asked.

“The suit?” she said.

“Yes.”

“No, I knew I wanted to get you something. But I just didn’t expect the lack of stores.”

You glanced around at the row of storefronts ahead.

“There are dozens of stores.”

“Not useful ones.”

“That sounds convenient.”

“It’s true,” she said. “Men’s formalwear is usually overpriced, poorly made, or both.”

“You say that like you’ve studied it.”

“I’ve gone shopping with enough people to know.”

She stopped at a mall directory and scanned the list of stores floor by floor.

You stood beside her, watching her finger move down the columns.

“This seems thorough.”

“You’ll be in photographs,” she said. “You should look presentable.”

“I was planning to stand in the back and blur into the background.”

“You’re not disappearing at my wedding.”

The words were simple, said without emphasis. Yet, something in you tightened at hearing them spoken so plainly.

She looked up a second later, as if aware she had said more than intended.

“There,” she said, pointing down the corridor. “Fourth floor.”

You followed her to the escalator.

The crowd shifted around you in steady movement. A child leaned too far over the rail until his mother pulled him back. Someone carried flowers wrapped in paper. A couple argued in low voices near the landing.

Mayu stood one step above you.

You kept your eyes forward.

By the fourth floor, the noise had thinned. The stores were quieter here, brighter, arranged with the careful distance of places that expected people to hesitate before buying anything.

She stopped outside a formal wear shop where mannequins stood in ironed jackets and polished shoes.

Inside, jackets hung in even rows. Mirrors lined the walls. Everything smelled faintly of fabric and wood polish.

A salesman approached.

“Looking for formalwear?”

“For him,” Mayu said.

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Measurements followed before you could object. Shoulders, chest, sleeves, waist. Questions about size, fit, color, event date.

Mayu answered some of them before you did.

Several suits were brought out. Ones in navy, beige, and the dark hue of charcoal.

You reached for the plainest option.

“Not that one,” she said.

“Why?”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s vague.”

“It makes you blend in.”

“But that's what I want.”

“If I look at the crowd during the reception, I want to make sure I can pick you out.”

You said nothing.

She handed you the navy jacket.

“Try this.”

You took it and went into the fitting room.

When you stepped out, adjusting the cuff, she was already watching.

The salesman commented on the fit. It flew over your head.

Mayu stepped closer and looked over the shoulders, sleeves, as if checking details no one else would notice.

Then she reached up and straightened the collar.

The touch lasted only a second.

“This one,” she said.

“You’ve decided quickly.”

“I decided before you put it on.”

You turned toward the mirror.

The suit fit well, better than anything you would have chosen for yourself.

In the reflection, Mayu stood just behind you.

Close enough to be mistaken for something else.

The salesman asked about alterations and pickup dates.

Mayu answered before you could.

“Before Sunday,” she said.

You knew why.

As you left the store, the both of you decided to split the cost, neither wanting the other to pay it in full.

The shopping bag swung lightly from your hand as you walked. Beside you, Mayu adjusted the strap on her shoulder and glanced ahead as if already searching for the next task waiting to be handled. She had always moved through days that way, collecting loose ends before they could unravel.

“You didn’t have to pay half,” you said after a while.

“You didn’t have to argue about it.”

“I wasn’t arguing.”

“You were using that tone.”

“What tone?”

“The one that means you act like you're right even before you say anything.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You looked at her.

She smiled faintly, but it faded quickly.

The fourth floor was quieter than the rest of the mall. Footsteps sounded clearer here. Store windows reflected polished versions of strangers. Somewhere nearby, soft piano music drifted from a speaker hidden in a ceiling corner.

You and Mayu slowed near the railing overlooking the lower levels. Below, people moved in small currents, unaware of how often lives crossed above them without noticing.

She rested her hands lightly on the rail.

“You looked good in it,” she said.

“The suit?”

“Yes.”

“I know, the salesman complimented me about five times.” 

“I’m serious.”

You turned your gaze downward.

“I know that too.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence between you was old enough to be comfortable, but lately it had begun carrying thorns in its side.

Then she looked sideways at you.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Your grip tightened around the bag.

“That’s not true.”

“You seem confident.”

“I’ve known you too long.”

The words settled between you like something placed carefully on a table.

You could tell her now.

The mall hummed around you. Elevators opened. Shoes crossed tile. Somewhere a child laughed, somewhere else someone apologized, somewhere else a store clerk recited prices no one wanted to hear.

Ordinary life continued, generous enough to offer cover.

You looked at Mayu beside you, at the woman who would be married in days, at the person who knew the shape of your silences better than anyone else.

Then you said the smallest thing again.

“I’m just tired.”

She studied your face long enough to make lying feel physical.

Then she nodded once.

“Alright.” she said but didn’t sound convinced.

You turned to her fully then.

The shopping bag in your hand suddenly felt heavier, the thin handles pressing into your fingers.

Mayu kept her gaze forward for a moment, watching the floors below as if what she wanted to say might be easier aimed at strangers.

“Actually,” she said again, quieter now, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. I just couldn’t find the right timing.”

Your brows lifted before you could stop them.

A hundred impossible thoughts arrived at once, loud and immediate.

Don’t marry him.
I made a mistake.
Did you ever love me too?
Why didn’t you say anything sooner?
Stay.

You hated yourself for how quickly hope could resurrect itself.

“What is it?” you asked.

She exhaled through her nose, almost a laugh but not quite.

“Lets just…talk about it later. We can head to your place, been a while since I last visited.”

You blinked.

The words took a moment to settle, rearranging every expectation that had risen inside you only seconds earlier.

“That’s it?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

A small smile touched her mouth. “Disappointed?”

You looked away toward the floors below.

“No.”

It sounded unconvincing even to you.

Mayu let the answer pass without saying anything. 

“I just don’t want to say it here,” she said. “Not in the middle of people.”

You glanced around. A couple stood nearby comparing shopping bags. Two teenagers leaned over the railing taking photos of themselves. A janitor pushed a cart past with the patience of someone who had seen every version of public emotion and none of it impressed him.

“Fair point.”

She turned from the railing and adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“So,” she said, as if suggesting something ordinary, “can we go to your place?”

Your chest tightened at how casually she asked.

It had been years since she’d last been there. Different apartment now, different neighborhood, different furniture bought out of necessity rather than taste. But the invitation reached backward through time anyway, touching old rooms, old afternoons, old versions of the two of you who once entered each other’s spaces without ceremony.

“Sure,” you said.

Her eyes moved to your face, reading something there.

“If it’s inconvenient, we don’t have to.”

“It’s not.”

That much was true.

Nothing about her was ever an inconvenience.

She nodded once, satisfied enough.

“Then let’s go.”

You started walking beside her toward the escalator. The shopping bag swung lightly from your hand. The suit inside was meant for her wedding.

You wondered what kind of man carried clothes for one future while hoping for another.

As the escalator carried you down through the bright open center of the mall, Mayu stood one step below you this time.

Close enough that if you reached forward, your hand would brush her shoulder.

You kept both hands to yourself.

The afternoon outside had softened by the time you left the mall.

The sharp brightness from earlier had dulled into a gentler light, the kind that turned glass buildings warm and made even crowded streets look briefly forgiving. Cars moved in steady lines. A cyclist slipped between lanes with reckless confidence. Somewhere down the block, someone was playing music from an open storefront.

You and Mayu chose to walk.

Neither of you said it aloud. At some point, you simply kept going past the taxi stand, past the bus stop, past the easy options, and the silence between you agreed.

The shopping bag knocked lightly against your leg with each step.

And again, you were walking beside her like the hundreds of times you have before. Like in elementary through high school, on afternoons where her uniform swayed with the wind, after festivals where she'd complain about walking in a yukata and now as adults where a ring now caught light around her finger.

The ring flashed now and then when her hand moved, a small, precise glint that seemed determined to catch your eye.

You looked away each time.

The sidewalks were busy but not rushed. Office workers moved in loose currents, couples shared umbrellas against a sky that threatened nothing, and delivery scooters stitched through traffic with casual disregard for mortality. Storefront glass reflected the two of you walking side by side, then lost you again as you passed.

“Do you remember,” Mayu said after a while, “when we used to take the long route home just to avoid the hill?”

“You mean when you used to insist on taking the long way.”

“It was tiring to climb all the way, thank you very much.”

“You were just lazy.”

“I was carrying a school bag.”

“You had three notebooks and a pencil case.”

“It was still a burden to carry.”

You almost smiled.

The sound of it surprised you more than it should have. She noticed, though she pretended not to.

“There was also that stray cat,” she continued. “The orange one near the vending machines.”

“It scratched everyone.”

“It liked me at least.”

“It tolerated you because you fed it your leftover lunch.”

“That still counts as liking me.”

“It bit you twice.”

“Affection takes different forms.”

You shook your head. For a moment, the years between then and now thinned into something transparent.

You remembered summer uniforms and damp collars. Rainy season walks under one umbrella neither of you admitted was too small. Her voice complaining about exams she would still ace. The way she always matched your pace without looking down.

“You still walk too fast,” she said suddenly.

“I slowed down.”

“No. I just got better at keeping up.”

The road narrowed as you turned into quieter streets lined with apartment buildings and convenience stores. The city noise softened behind you. Trees planted along the sidewalk shifted in a mild breeze, their leaves making a dry, papery sound overhead.

Mayu glanced at a small bakery on the corner.

“That place used to be a DVD store.”

“You cried when it closed.”

“I did not.”

“You asked the owner if they could at least keep the romcom section.”

“I watched most of them, and I could do it again for the rest of time.”

“You were twelve.” 

“A twelve year old that lived for romance and cringy one liners.”

This time you laughed properly, brief and low.

She looked ahead as her mouth curved, letting the familiar comfort of silence take over.

Neither of you spoke for the rest of the block. 

You turned down the narrower lane leading to your building.

The neighborhood was mostly residential here, the storefronts giving way to stacked apartments with bicycles chained to rails and potted plants guarding entrances. A woman watered herbs on a balcony above. Somewhere nearby, a television laughed through an open window. The smell of garlic and soy drifted from someone’s open window.

Mayu glanced around slowly. 

“Your neighborhood looks so cozy, I wouldn’t mind living here.”

Your building came into view at the end of the lane. It was just some building in plain colors, one that had narrow windows, the sort of place that blended in with the city and didn’t have eyes on it in every corner. 

“Come on up,” you said, leading her into the gate.

Both of you ascended the steps, each step audible until the higher floors as it broke through the atmosphere of the building. Eventually, you finally made it in your apartment.

You keyed open the door and held it for her. She stepped inside first, her shoulder brushing close enough to smell her perfume. 

You followed after her and closed the door gently behind you. 

What had felt like an ordinary home hours ago was now exposed. The coat left over the chair. The papers stacked unevenly on the table in front of the couch. A mug still in the sink. The lamp near the window with its crooked shade you had stopped noticing months ago.

You saw everything through the eyes of someone coming in.

Mayu slipped off her shoes near the entrance without asking where to place them, then straightened and looked around with quiet curiosity.

“Nice place,” she said.

“You don’t have to be polite.”

“I’m not.”

She walked farther in, fingers brushing lightly along the back of the couch as she passed. 

“It feels lived in,” she added.

“That’s a better way to say it’s messy.”

“It isn’t.”

She glanced toward the kitchen, then the shelves near the television, then the window where the late light was settling in long bars across the floor.

“It feels like you.”

You set the shopping bag down beside the wall and placed your keys on the counter.

“I’m not sure whether that’s flattering.”

“It wasn’t meant to be either way.”

Her voice had gone softer since stepping inside, as if the room itself asked for quieter language.

You moved toward the sink, taking cups from inside it and rinsing it more for something to do than from need.

“Water?” you asked.

“Sure.”

Pulling the fridge open, you picked out a plastic water pitcher that was left inside all afternoon.

Mayu wandered slowly through the room behind you, as if she had every right to.

Her eyes grazed over books neatly tight together on a shelf that you hadn’t read a single page of, dust gathering on their covers. Not long after, she crouched near the lower shelf where older things had been pushed without much order. 

Her fingers paused on a small plastic case.

A DVD.

“No way.”

She stood and held it up between two fingers, laughing under her breath.

The cover showed a simple design with the title in big letters above the characters. One of those sentimental films she used to defend with unreasonable passion.

You turned.

“You kept this?”

“It came from one of the boxes.”

“You say that like it answers my question.”

“It survived me moving out by accident.”

“Sure it did.” she looked at the case, smiling to herself.

“We watched this three times.”

“You watched it three times. I was just there.”

“You cried at the ending.”

“I was tired.”

“You still cried.”

“I had allergies.”

“In December?”

“Yeah, and?” you leaned against the counter.

She laughed properly then, the sound filling the apartment too easily.

For a moment, the years thinned again.

You could almost see another version of this room layered over the present. Her sprawled across a couch complaining about fictional men. You pretending not to listen while memorizing every word.

Mayu set the DVD down carefully on the shelf.

Then her gaze moved to the framed photo tucked half turned on another shelf.

She picked it up.

You were in a wrinkled school uniform, looking annoyed at the camera yet still holding out a peace sign. Her beside you in a festival yukata with a stick of candied fruit in her hand.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the frame.

“You kept this too?”

Your throat tightened.

“Didn’t really have a reason to throw it out.” 

Mayu looked at the photo for a long moment.

The room had gone quiet enough that the hum of the refrigerator seemed suddenly important.

“You always hated this picture,” she said.

“I hated that you pulled and made me pose for it.”

“You hated smiling in public.”

“I still do.”

“That’s not true.”

She lifted the frame slightly toward you, another laugh escaping her lips again. Her hands set the photo back where she found it, though straighter this time, no longer half-hidden. Then she turned and leaned lightly against the shelf, arms folding across herself.

“When did you move here?” she asked.

“About a year ago.”

“And you never told me.”

“You were busy.”

The answer landed heavier than you meant it to.

Her gaze dropped for a second.

“I still would’ve wanted to know.”

You poured water into two glasses and handed one to her. Your fingers brushed when she took it. Neither of you reacted quickly enough to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“You had a lot going on,” you said.

“That doesn’t mean you stop existing.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?”

You looked away first.

She took a sip of water, then wandered toward the window. Outside, the last of the daylight was thinning across the neighboring buildings, blurring at the edges.

“So,” you said after a sip of your own, “what did you want to talk about?”

Mayu turned to you and something in the look of her eyes shifted.

“It’s nothing much,” she shrugged but you knew better.

“If it’s just gossip, I will be very disappointed.” 

“It’s not,” she said. 

Mayu took in a breath, eyes lurking somewhere outside the window before drifting back to you.

“I just wanted to say sorry.” 

You frowned slightly.

“Sorry?”

She nodded once, but even that small movement looked difficult.

“For what?”

Mayu looked down at the glass in her hands, fingers turning it a fraction against the condensation.

“For a lot of things.”

The answer unsettled you more than if she had named one.

She set the glass aside and crossed her arms loosely, as if the room had grown colder.

“For disappearing when life got busy. For acting like years between us were normal. For only reaching out when I needed something.” Her voice stayed even, but carefully so. “For today, maybe.”

“You don’t need to apologize for asking me to help.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You said nothing.

She glanced around your apartment again, at the bookshelves, the couch, the ordinary evidence of a life she had not been part of.

“I also want to say sorry for dragging you along to wedding preparations.”

You furrowed your brows, confused yet no words slipped out of you.

“Especially when I knew you loved me.”

Everything in the room seemed to freeze at once. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic outside, even the late light near the window felt suddenly suspended.

You stared at her.

Mayu did not look away this time.

“What?” The word came out low, stripped of shape.

“I knew.” She swallowed.

Your hand tightened around the glass until cold water pressed over your knuckles.

“How long?”

Her eyes lowered for a moment.

“I don’t know exactly. Maybe longer than I wanted to admit.”

A laugh escaped you, sharp and painful. By then, every line, every word you rehearsed had disappeared into thin air, leaving you helplessly scrambling to gather everything together in the moment

“I’m not trying to defend myself.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She drew in a breath that trembled before it settled.

“Telling the truth too late.”

You set the glass down before it slipped from your hand.

“All this time,” you said, each word careful now, “you knew.”

“Yes.” she said with a small nod.

“And you still called.”

“Yes.”

“You still asked me for favors.”

Her silence answered first. 

“Yes, I did.”

Something piercing and bitter moved through your chest.

“You let me stand beside you while you chose someone else.” you said after another breath of disbelief.

“That isn’t fair.”

You looked at her with disbelief so immediate it almost hurt.

“Fair?”

“I didn’t ask you to wait for me.”

“No,” you said. “You just made sure I did.”

Her face changed at that, pain crossing it fast and unguarded.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Then why keep me close?”

“Because I loved you too.”

The room froze.

You said nothing because there was nothing stable enough to say.

Tears had gathered in her eyes, but her voice held.

“I loved you in the worst possible way. Not bravely enough to choose you. Not decently enough to let you go.”

You stepped back as if distance might make sense in return.

“That’s cruel.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to say that like whatever you said makes it any less.”

You turned away, staring at the wall, the bookshelf, the ordinary furniture now made strange.

Memories moved through you with violent clarity. Every late call. Every invitation. Every time she reached for you when lonely, then drifted when life brightened elsewhere. Every hope you had called patience.

Behind you, she spoke again.

“I thought there would be time.”

You laughed once, exhausted.

“There always is,” you said. “Until there isn’t.”

When you finally faced her again, your anger had gone quieter, which was worse.

“So why tell me now?”

Her lips parted, then pressed together.

Because there were only days left. Because she was standing in the apartment of the man she did not choose. Because guilt had finally outweighed convenience.

When she answered, it was softer than all of that.

“Because I couldn’t bear becoming someone’s wife while still being a coward to you.”

You held her gaze for a long moment, then looked away before it could break something in you.

The apartment suddenly felt too small for what had been said. Too full of objects that had quietly witnessed years of your devotion without ever warning you where it would end.

“You should’ve left me alone,” you said, voice softening ever so slightly.

Mayu’s face tightened.

“I know that too.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” You shook your head slowly. “You say you loved me like that’s supposed to explain why you put me through all of that, all of this!”

“It doesn’t explain it,” she said, voice shaking. “I know it doesn’t.”

“Then what does it do?” you snapped. “What exactly am I supposed to do with that now?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came.

You laughed once, sharp and hollow.

“Congratulations, Mayu. You loved me. Secretly. Uselessly. While getting engaged to someone else.”

You hated yourself for saying the words that left your lips, but not enough to take them back.

Her eyes filled completely with tears.

“I deserved that.”

“That’s the problem,” you said. “You think this is about deserving pain. It isn’t. It’s about what you took.”

She looked stunned.

“You took years from me.”

Your voice had gone low again, steadier, which made it harsher.

“You took every chance I had to stop hoping. Every time I almost moved on, you came back just enough to remind me why I couldn’t. You made me watch you pick flowers that will surround your wedding, you dragged me along to pick your wedding cake, and you pulled me in to see you in the dress that offered the rest of your life with someone else.”

Your breath caught, anger tightening every word until it felt sharpened by years.

“And the worst part?” you said. “I let you.”

Mayu flinched like the sentence had struck somewhere physical.

“I answered every call. I showed up whenever you asked. I told myself it meant something because I needed it to mean something.” You shook your head, a bitter smile appearing and dying just as fast. “I made excuses for you so often I started calling it loyalty.”

Tears slipped down her face now, silent and steady.

“I know,” she whispered.

“No.” You stepped back again. “You know now. Knowing now is easy. Knowing while it was happening would have required you to do something.”

She covered her mouth for a moment, trying to hold herself together. When she spoke again, her voice came through unevenly.

“I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing you.”

The answer made something hot and furious rise in your chest.

“You lost me anyway.”

The room went still after that.

Outside, somewhere below the building, a siren passed and faded. A neighbor’s door shut. Life continued with the casual cruelty of things that do not care.

Mayu lowered her hand slowly.

“I loved you,” she said again, weaker this time, as if the confession itself had begun collapsing. “I still do.”

You laughed, but there was no humor left in it.

“Then say it, why isn’t it me?”

The words tore out before pride could stop them.

Her face crumpled.

“Why wasn’t it me standing beside you at fittings. Why wasn’t it me arguing with you over flowers. Me pretending not to hate seating charts. Me waiting for you at the altar while you complained your shoes hurt.” Your voice broke, then hardened around the fracture. “Why wasn’t it me?”

She cried openly now, shoulders trembling.

“I know,” she said.

“No, stop saying that.” You pointed toward the door, then let your hand fall. “Stop acting like understanding is the same thing as changing anything.”

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You can’t.”

That landed between you with brutal finality.

She looked around the apartment then, at the shelves, the couch, the photograph she had straightened minutes ago. All the quiet evidence of a life that had once left space for her.

“I never wanted to be the person who hurt you most,” she said.

“You didn’t plan it,” you replied. “You just kept choosing it.”

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, there was something emptied out in her expression. Not relief. Not peace. Just recognition.

“I should go.”

You wanted to say stay.

You wanted to say don’t marry him.

You wanted to say start over, start here, start now.

Instead, you said nothing.

Mayu moved to the entrance and slipped her shoes back on with trembling hands. At the door, she paused without turning.

“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “if I had been braver...”

You stared at the floor.

“If you had been braver,” you said, “we wouldn’t be discussing what-ifs.”

She nodded once then she was gone.

The door closed gently behind her, almost politely.

You stood in the middle of the apartment, listening to the silence she left behind.

Near the wall, the shopping bag waited where you had dropped it.

Inside was the suit you were meant to wear to watch someone else live the life you wanted.

Your life after that took on a dullness that followed you everywhere you went.

Days passed in the slow, unremarkable way they often do after something devastating.

You moved through each day as if you were learning to live without something that had always been there.

The wedding invitation remained on your nightstand, shifted occasionally from one part of your room to another, but never thrown away. Sometimes you turned it face down, other times you tucked it beneath a book as if hiding it might also hide the decision waiting inside it. By evening, it always found its way back into view.

Whether to go should have been simple.

Every sensible reason pointed in one direction.

Don’t go.

Don’t stand in a room dressed for celebration while your chest caves in quietly beneath rented lighting and floral arrangements. 

Don't watch Mayu walk toward a future you once built in daydreams.

Don't shake hands with the man who was brave in all the places you had been careful.

Don't become a witness to the fruit of your own absence.

The logic was there, you didn't need to think twice.

Yet grief rarely respects logic.

Because another voice kept answering.

Go because she asked you once, long before any of this, if you would be there when it mattered.

Go because you had spent years loving her in silence, and silence had already cost enough.

Go because some part of you still wanted one final look, even if it ruined you.

You hated that voice most of all.

At night, you lay awake replaying the scene in your apartment with the obsessive cruelty memory reserves for fresh wounds. Her standing by the window. Her saying she loved you. Her saying it too late.

You revisited every expression, every pause, as if somewhere inside them there might be a version of events that ended differently.

But there was none.

Some mornings, your anger made the decision for you.

You would stare at the invitation and think, absolutely not.

Let her marry without your blessing. Let her wonder if you stayed away because you hated her. Let your absence speak where words have failed.

By afternoon, the anger thinned.

Then came the tenderness that was equally unhelpful.

You would remember her laughing in your apartment over that old DVD. The way she straightened the photograph before setting it back. The tremor in her voice when she said she had loved you badly.

And suddenly not going felt less like a choice and more like another unfinished what-if between you.

So the days kept passing, and the answer kept changing.

You tried to imagine each version of yourself.

The man who stayed home, who muted his phone and endured the day by refusing to know what time vows were exchanged.

The man who attended, smiled politely, applauded at the right moments, and died in small invisible ways throughout the reception.

Neither looked admirable. Both looked tired.

By the week’s end, the invitation was bent at one corner from being handled too often.

You sat at your kitchen table with it in your hands and understood something bitterly simple.

There had never been an easy answer.

A thought came to you with the kind of clarity that only arrives after days of thinking of every other possibility.

Maybe this was how moving on began.

Not with speeches, not with sudden strength nor promises and not with waking up one morning mysteriously healed.

You had spent too long living inside alternate versions of your life. Worlds where you confessed sooner. Worlds where she chose differently. Worlds where timing was useful for once. Worlds where one brave sentence from either of you changed everything that followed.

You had built entire memories from ifs.

If you had spoken in university.

If you had kissed her that night after the festival.

If you had stopped answering her calls.

If she had been honest.

If you had been less careful.

If love had ever been enough on its own.

Those versions of life had kept you company, but they had also kept you where you were.

As long as possibility remained hidden, some part of you would keep feeding it, keep polishing it, keep returning to it when the real world felt too much.

Maybe the only way forward was to watch the door close with your own eyes.

To see her walk toward someone else under full light, with witnesses, with vows, with music, with all the ceremony required to kill a daydream properly.

To stand there and know, finally, that no hidden chapter was waiting after this one because grief thrives in uncertainty, it grows in hesitation, unanswered questions, and in things that almost were.

Truth, even the brutal truth, was a pill that was difficult to swallow yet you still could.

You looked down at the invitation in your hands.

The corner was creased. Your thumb had worn a faint softness into the paper from holding it too often.

Maybe this was evidence.

Evidence that something real had existed, even if it had never become what you wanted. Evidence that you had loved deeply enough to be broken by it. Evidence that life does not always reward sincerity, but that sincerity still counts for something.

You exhaled slowly.

Maybe going would destroy the last of your hope.

Maybe that was exactly what hope had become, something that needed ending.

You imagined yourself there. Watching her smile. Watching her choose. Feeling something in you collapse and, afterward, realizing you were still standing.

That possibility felt almost merciful.

Because if you could survive the worst version of it, then everything after might finally become peaceful.

No more rehearsing confessions to an empty room.

No more checking your phone when it buzzed.

No more treating the past with regret.

Eventually it'll only be silence, plain and clean, instead of pain mixed with imagination.

You set the invitation on the table and stared at it for a long time.

Then you reached for your phone and checked the ceremony time again.

Not to make a decision.

But because you already had one.

You arrived in front of the hall an hour early before the main event started.

From the back seat of the taxi, you watched the entrance through the tinted window.

Guests were already arriving in small groups. Men adjusted their cuffs and coat hems before stepping out of cars. Women smoothed dresses at the waist, checked lipstick in compact mirrors, lifted skirts over puddles that weren't there.

Older relatives moved slower, carrying envelopes. Younger couples arrived holding hands until they reached the doors, then separated just enough to look formal again.

At a table near the entrance, two attendants smiled as people signed the guest book, pens passing from hand to hand. Cards were placed into a polished box. 

Then everyone disappeared inside.

You stayed where you were.

The driver glanced at you once in the mirror, then wisely chose to not say anything.

The air conditioner hummed softly. Somewhere on the radio, a song played low enough to not be a bother. 

You looked down at your hands.

They were steady, which felt insulting.

Outside, another taxi pulled up. A laughing group of friends got out, one of them carrying a bouquet wrapped in pale paper. Someone nearly forgot a gift bag and had to run back for it. Their laughter rang briefly across the curb before the doors swallowed it.

You wondered what it must feel like to arrive happy.

Your gaze lifted to the hall again.

White flowers framed the entrance, the same ones she picked. Gold lettering displayed the couple’s names on a polished board with her name beside his. 

You looked away.

There was still time to tell the driver to leave.

You imagined giving an address at random, going home, taking off the suit and spending the afternoon face down in bed while somewhere across the city vows were exchanged without your witness.

Part of you wanted the easy way out.

Another part knew you had not come this far for mercy.

A staff member opened the main doors wider as more guests arrived. Through the gap, you caught a glimpse of warm light, floral arrangements, people moving inside like figures in another life.

The driver cleared his throat gently.

“Sir,” he said, “are you getting out?”

You stared at the entrance a moment longer.

Then you reached for the handle.

You stepped outside, and the city met you with its usual self, traffic continued, a bus sighed to a stop at the curb, someone across the street laughed into a phone call that had nothing to do with you.

The sky remained bright, untroubled. It was almost mocking you with how ordinary the world could stay on the day you were asking it to witness something private and catastrophic.

You paid the driver, thanked him out of habit, and closed the door.

Then you crossed the road.

The suit jacket sat neatly on your shoulders, your shoes clicked against stone with more confidence than you felt. 

By the time you reached the steps, another couple had fallen into pace beside you. They were talking quietly about table numbers. You let them pass first, grateful for the cover of strangers.

At the top, the attendants turned to you with the same polished warmth they had offered everyone else.

“Welcome,” one of them said with a practiced smile. “Thank you for coming.”

You nodded.

The other gestured toward the guest book table.

“Please sign in here, sir.”

The pen felt oddly heavy in your hand.

Rows of names already filled the pages. Friends, relatives, colleagues, people who belonged cleanly to this day. You searched for an empty line longer than necessary, then wrote your name in careful strokes.

“I'm glad you could make it.” You looked up, placing the pen on the guest book.

Rin approached you from the entrance, standing clean and confidently in the suit he was about to be wedded in.

You gathered enough will to etch on a believable smile as you reached and shook his hand.

“I told her I was going,” you replied. “I wasn't really planning on missing a big day.” 

Liar.

Up close, he looked exactly as he always had whenever you had briefly met him before, put together, honest, easy in his own skin. There was a hint of nervousness there too, but it was the softest kind, the nerves of someone about to promise forever, not the nerves of someone watching forever happen to someone else. 

“Looking good,” he said, glancing at your suit.

For one dangerous second, you nearly told him she picked it.

Instead, you said, “Thanks.”

Rin adjusted his cuff absentmindedly, then looked back toward the hall doors where staff moved in quick, purposeful lines.

“Everything’s a blur today,” he admitted. “I thought I’d be calm, but apparently my body disagrees.”

“You seem calm enough.”

“Outside, I’m trying to be calm.” He smiled. “Inside, I’m a nervous wreck.”

You nodded as if that were funny.

Part of you hated him for being kind.

Choosing to be cruel would have been easier and choosing to be arrogant would have been useful. If he had been smug or shallow or unattentive, you could have built an enemy out of him and carried that into the ceremony.

Instead, he was nothing else but a man in love.

Which made your loss feel less like robbery and more like failure.

Rin glanced at the guest book, then back at you.

“Mayu should still be in her dressing room.”

You snapped your head almost immediately before looking away again.

“Oh yeah?” you shrugged as you tried to keep anything from slipping. “I mean, she should be. The ceremony doesn’t start until an hour from now.”

“Would you like to see her?”

Your mind lurched in opposite directions at once.

No.

Yes.

Absolutely not.

More than anything.

You looked past him toward the hallway beyond the entrance where staff moved briskly in and around the place, where somewhere behind closed doors Mayu was preparing to be a bride in layers of silk, powder, nerves, and jewelry.

You imagined her seated before a mirror while hands adjusted her veil. Imagined her laughing too brightly to hide her nervousness. Imagined her alone for one brief second between preparations, staring at herself as if asking whether reflection counted as consent.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” you said.

“You won’t be interrupting anything.” Rin’s smile held no suspicion, only warmth. “She’s been looking for you since she got here.”

That sentence struck harder than it should have.

Even now, even here, she was reaching backward while stepping forward.

You swallowed.

“I’m sure she has enough on her mind.”

“She does,” he said lightly. “Which is why seeing a good friend might help.”

You almost declined again. You should have. There was still dignity available in small portions far from this.

Rin gestured toward a side corridor. “Come on. I’ll walk you there.”

You followed before common sense could catch up.

The hallway behind the main lobby was quieter, carpeted thick enough to muffle footsteps. The noise of arriving guests faded behind closed doors, replaced by distant voices, the rustle of fabric, a burst of laughter from some unseen room, then silence again.

Framed photographs of flowers lined the walls and everything smelled faintly of perfume and the specific smell of polished wood.

Rin walked beside you with the relaxed pace he always had.

He stopped in front of a door, “I’ll leave you here. I’m afraid the groom can’t see the bride before the wedding starts.” he says with an easy grin, tapping the door once with the back of his knuckles.

“Apparently I’m only allowed to ruin tradition after the ceremony,” he added.

You managed something that resembled a smile.

Rin rested a hand briefly on your shoulder, the gesture casual and sincere enough to be unbearable.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Really.”

He turned and walked back down the corridor, one hand slipping into his pocket, already being called by someone halfway down the hall.

You watched him go.

For a moment, you considered leaving.

The door stood in front of you, ordinary as any other door in any other building. Your hand slowly reached out as the same voice told you to walk away, to run, to keep distance and call it respect.

For once, you didn’t listen. Your hand held the knob and turned it to click open. 

The room beyond blinded you with light.

Not brightly in the harsh sense, but golden, softened by bulbs circling a long mirror and the divided daylight slipping through half-drawn curtains. The air carried the mixed smell of sweet perfume, strong hairspray, and fresh flowers.

It wasn’t long before you saw her.

Mayu was sitting in front of her mirror, hands intertwining on her lap with her thumbs tapping against one another— something subtle she did when she was nervous.

For a second, you didn’t move.

You just stood there, half inside the room, as if stepping any farther would push you to run away.

Mayu’s eyes met yours through the mirror.

Her hands stilled.

The small, restless movement of her thumbs stopped like it had been caught mid-thought.

She turned, slowly, carefully, as if even that needed to be done right today.

For a second that stretched longer than it should’ve, neither of you said anything.

“Hey.” you broke the silence first, raising a hand before being unsure what to do with it.

“You came.” her voice wasn’t loud, but it crossed the room anyway.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” you closed the door behind you.

Her eyes grazed over your suit, “You wore it.”

“You picked it for me.” you walked closer, taking each step with intent of not breaking in front of her.

“I didn’t think you would listen.”

“I don’t, usually.”

A faint smile touched her lips but it didn’t stay long.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pressed in from all sides, filled with everything you hadn’t said in your apartment, everything she had said too late.

Mayu stood.

She moved carefully, gathering a small part of her dress as she stepped toward you, the fabric sweeping softly against the floor.

“I came here to watch you get married,” you said then added right after, “And to apologize.”

Mayu’s lips opened, as if she was about to object but you spoke again.

“I meant what I said back then but I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you, I didn’t mean to scare you away.”

Mayu stared at you as if the apology had arrived in the wrong language.

For a moment, she only blinked then she shook her head once, small and immediate.

“No.” The word came out soft, but certain. “You shouldn’t apologize for that.”

“I want to.” 

“You should just be angry at me because you have every right to be.” Her voice trembled on the last word.

You looked away first, toward the table cluttered with brushes, pins, a lipstick left uncapped. 

“I still shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

Mayu stepped closer, the hem of her dress whispered over the floor.

“You think you scared me?” she asked quietly.

“You walked out.” You met her eyes again.

“I walked out because you were right.” She drew in a breath, thinking of her words.

“I left because for the first time, I heard what I had done from your side. Not the version I told myself. Not the softer one where I was confused, or overwhelmed, or unlucky.” Her fingers tightened around the folds of her skirt. “The real version.”

You said nothing.

Because there was nothing to defend.

Because truth had already done its work.

“I went home,” she continued, “and I sat on the floor in my apartment and cried for the next hour.”

Despite everything, the image of her nearly loosened you.

“I kept hearing you say I took years from you.” her eyes filled again, though her tone stayed the same. “And I hated that it was true.”

“I didn’t come here to make you cry before your wedding.” You swallowed.

“Too late now.” a weak laugh escaped her.

You looked at her properly then, at the careful makeup that hid the bags under her eyes, at the pearls at her throat, at the veil waiting behind her like a door she was ready to go through.

“You look beautiful,” you said, the words slipped out before pride could stop it.

“W—what?” Mayu’s breath caught.

“I remember you asking how you looked with the dress,” you smiled, despite the moment. “I just figured out what to say now.” 

A sound left her that was almost a laugh and almost a sob.

“You’re unbelievable,” she said, covering her mouth for a moment as tears gathered anyway. “You wait until now?”

“I’ve never been known for timing.”

“That much is true.”

She dabbed carefully beneath one eye, trying not to disturb the work someone had spent an hour creating.

You watched her do it and thought, absurdly, that heartbreak required a surprising amount of maintenance.

When she lowered her hand, she was smiling through it. Not long after, you watched you step closer and closer until she stood in front of you.

Her arms then placed themselves around you, pulling you deeper.

For one stunned second, you did not move.

Your body forgot every instruction it had rehearsed on the way here. Keep distance. Be polite. Survive this. Leave intact.

Then instinct took over dignity.

Your arms came around her slowly, then fully.

The dress was softer than you expected, layered fabric and delicate structure beneath your hands. Beneath that, her body trembled with the effort of holding itself together.

You closed your eyes.

This was bad for you in every possible sense.

The scent of her hair, the warmth of her against you, the familiarity so immediate it passed thought entirely. Your hands remembered her before your mind could object.

Outside the room, someone laughed in the hallway.

Inside it, the world had narrowed to breath and heartbeat.

“I hate you,” she whispered into your shoulder.

You let out a soft, broken laugh.

“I doubt it.”

When Mayu pulled back, there were faint marks of her makeup on the fabric of your suit. She reached up slowly, thumb brushing them away slowly as she looked up at you.

“Thank you.” she said. “For having stuck with me for so long, for always being so reliable, for being there when you didn’t want to and for choosing me even when you were scared. And I hope someone else does the same for you, someone that’s braver.”

A smile grew on your lips then, one that was bittersweet to the taste.

A knock sounded at the door suddenly.

“Mayu? Five minutes,” a woman called cheerfully, unaware of what was happening inside.

“I should go.” you told her, still with the same smile.

Mayu’s hand caught lightly at your sleeve before you could step back.

“Wait.” The word came out small, but urgent.

You looked at her.

Her fingers loosened immediately, as if even touching you now required permission she no longer believed she had. She let her hand fall between you.

“I mean...” She swallowed. “Not yet.”

Another knock sounded, gentler this time.

“Five minutes, Mayu.”

“Fine,” she called, though her eyes never left yours.

You nodded your head at her before you turned and your steps led you to the door.

Until you turned on your heel.

She had already turned around too, half way back to the front of the mirror when she heard you from behind.

“Koma Mayu!”

You shouted, not caring for the people on the other side of the door.

She turned around, brow raised at the sudden volume of your voice in the quiet room. Seeing you smile brightly across the room despite the tears welling in your eyes, she didn’t just see the man that stood there, she saw the boy who took the fall for her in elementary, the teenager that always walked her home and the young man that had loved her for years.

“I hope you live a happy life!”

You continued, arm finding itself raised from your side with your fist balled.

Mayu almost laughed at that but she held her expression down.

Then as her eyes gleamed and shimmered against the afternoon light to look back, you shouted again,

“I love you!”

You didn’t cry as you spoke the truth that had been hidden for so long. Instead, a laugh broke through your smile and one that she shared with you.

You waved at her now, one that meant goodbye for now but also meant I'll always be here.

That was when you reached for the door again and after one last look at her, you walked out.

The ceremony started not long after.

You chose to seat with a couple of old and recognizable classmates from way back then, some still certain that it should had been you waiting at the end of the altar but you didn’t say anything to object instead you just accepted their words and said,

“I guess I wasn’t really good with timing.”

That earned you a few small, knowing laughs that didn’t quite reach anyone’s eyes.

The hall was too bright for something like honesty to hide in it. Light spilled over everything in soft gold, floral arches, polished seats, the careful arrangement of a day that had been rehearsed into perfection. Even the air felt arranged, like it had been ironed flat.

Someone beside you leaned in slightly. “Still…weird, right?”

You didn’t ask what they meant since you already knew.

So you just gave a small shrug, the kind that doesn’t invite more afterwards, and kept your eyes forward.

The music began, gentle enough to make everything feel slower than it was.

And then she appeared.

Mayu.

For a second, your mind did that infuriating thing where it tried to protect you by pretending she didn’t know you yet, the illusion broke almost immediately, because there was no version of her that could ever be ordinary again once seen like this.

She stood at the entrance of the aisle, framed by light and white flowers that looked almost unreal against her, silk moved like water around her steps. The veil softened her outline behind the cloth, made her look slightly distant, like she had already begun crossing into somewhere you couldn’t follow.

Her hands were folded carefully in front of her.

You noticed that immediately.

She walked forward, each step was measured, but not effortless. There was something contained in it, something held tightly behind her ribs that no one else in the room seemed to notice.

Except maybe you.

Maybe only you.

Her eyes didn’t immediately search the crowd.

That was the first strange thing.

Instead, she kept them forward, fixed on the end of the aisle where Rin waited.

Rin stood there in a suit that fit him like certainty. He looked steady in a way that made the entire room feel more grounded just by comparison.

When she reached him, he smiled.

He looked like someone ready to take the next step forward and then he extended his hand.

Mayu didn’t hesitate before placing hers in it.

The ceremony began.

Words were spoken.

Promises were made.

The officiant’s voice rose and fell in practiced rhythm, turning something deeply irreversible into something that sounded almost gentle.

You didn’t hear most of it. Well, not really.

When it came time for vows, Rin spoke first.

His voice was steady, warm, unshaken in the way people sound when they believe in what they’re saying without needing to survive it first. He spoke about time, about choosing someone every day, about something like certainty shaped into language.

Mayu spoke next, voice steady like his and sure of the words she was reading off of. When she joked in between them, you laughed with the crowd and didn’t feel that pang that twisted inside of your chest.

Rin smiled at her when she finished speaking. Not the relieved kind. The kind that believed he had just heard something true.

The officiant spoke again, voice lifting toward the part everyone had been waiting for.

Then the question was asked.

It was simple.

It had always been.

And yet the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Rin spoke first.

“I do.” 

Applause flickered through the hall like a reflex before silence returned, gentler now, expectant.

All eyes turned to her.

Mayu stood there for a second longer than necessary, not enough for anyone else to notice, enough for you to feel it anyway.

Her fingers tightened faintly at her side as she spoke.

“I do.”

The room exhaled all at once, as if permission had finally been granted for everything to continue.

Someone beside you smiled. “See? Told you it was meant to be.”

You didn’t respond.

Because there wasn’t anything left in that moment that felt worth shaping into words.

The officiant continued speaking, voice smooth again, carrying the ceremony forward. Around you, the hall reacted exactly as it was supposed to. Applause softened into smiles then softened into relief that finally softened into celebration.

Rin and Mayu turned slightly toward each other as instructed, bodies aligning in practiced choreography. There was a brief pause before the next instruction, that small suspended gap where the world waits for something intimate to be made public.

Mayu’s hands remained steady.

That detail stayed with you longer than anything else.

The officiant lifted his hand slightly.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Rin leaned in first.

The moment was gentle, deliberate, and carefully contained, like something placed down rather than taken.

The kiss was brief, not to show too much to the crowd.

The room responded instantly, applause rising like it had been waiting behind everyone’s teeth the entire time.

You clapped with them.

Beside you, someone let out a quiet laugh of satisfaction, same as the other people in the room.

Mayu pulled back after the kiss, her expression composed in the way people learn to be.

She smiled, the kind of smile that was practiced for the occasion.

Rin was smiling too.

The officiant spoke again, voice brightening as he announced them.

The hall rose gradually, chairs shifting, fabric moving, bodies preparing to transition from witnessing to participating.

You stayed seated a moment longer than most as applause continued.

Music began again, softer now, celebratory in a way that required no interpretation.

Rin and Mayu turned toward the crowd.

Hand in hand.

The beginning of something officially acknowledged.

Mayu’s gaze moved across the room again, slowly this time, as if acknowledging each section of the day she had agreed to belong to.

It passed over relatives.

Over friends.

Over rows of carefully arranged approval.

And then, for the briefest fraction of a second, it reached where you were standing.

It didn’t stop.

It didn’t linger.

But it did recognize you before moving on.

The applause did not change.

The music did not falter.

And the ceremony continued exactly as it was supposed to.

When the reception began winding down and each table was called one by one to take photographs with the newly married couple. You nearly forced yourself to leave before it was your turn.

You watched guests rise in groups, smoothing jackets, fixing hair, laughing as they made their way toward the stage where Mayu and Rin sat beneath flowers that had already begun to curl at the edges.

Every few minutes another burst of applause followed the camera shutter.

You checked your watch though you already knew the time. You reached for your coat though you had no real reason to. You considered slipping out through the side doors while everyone’s attention was elsewhere.

It would have been easy as quiet exits always are.

But each time you thought to stand, another table was called, and you remained where you were, caught between the urge to disappear and the strange obligation to stay long enough for her to see you.

Then someone over the mic called for your table.

You stood last, letting your old friends move ahead of you so their figures could become a temporary shield. They joked among themselves as they walked, unaware or kind enough to pretend they were unaware. You followed a step behind, hands in your pockets, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor.

The path to the stage felt longer than it should have.

By the time you reached it, everyone had already arranged themselves with the easy instinct of people who still belonged in one another’s lives. You took the remaining space at the edge of the group.

Mayu and Rin continued to smile as the other people huddled behind their seats.

“Sir, could you move a bit more to the center?” The photographer said, looking at your direction.

You hesitantly raised your hand and they nodded.

A few people shuffled aside to make room, someone patted your shoulder as if that made any of this simpler. You stepped forward, careful not to brush against anyone more than necessary, until you found yourself nearer the center than you had wanted.

Nearer to her than you had planned.

Mayu turned slightly when you approached. Up close, her makeup was still spotless, as if she hadn’t shed any tears during the ceremony and even before. She still looked beautiful in your eyes.

For a moment, her smile changed.

It did not disappear, but it loosened around the edges into something less public and more familiar. Something that remembered smaller rooms, ordinary afternoons, versions of both of you that no one else here had known.

“Thanks for staying,” she said softly enough that only you could hear.

You nodded once.

“Congratulations.”

The word came out clean, you were grateful for that much.

The photographer lifted his camera.

“Everyone closer, please.”

The group compressed inward. You felt Mayu’s arm brush lightly against yours as everyone adjusted for the frame.

“One more smile!”

The shutter clicked.

Then again.

And again.

When it was done, people relaxed instantly, already laughing, already stepping away, already moving toward the next part of the evening.

Mayu looked at you one last time.

There were a thousand things neither of you said, and perhaps that was enough.

“Take care,” she said.

“You too.”

Then someone called her name. Rin leaned in to answer another guest. A cousin tugged at her sleeve for another picture. The current of celebration reclaimed her without resistance.

You stepped down from the stage.

By the time the next table was being called, you were already walking toward the exit. Before you walked out, you excused yourself with reasons everyone pretended to believe, though the truth was simpler than any of them would have admitted. You had already seen everything you came there to see. 

The air outside felt different, much colder than the air inside. 

You stood at the curb for a moment longer than necessary, as though waiting for your body to catch up with the decision your mind had made minutes ago. Then you raised a hand.

A taxi slowed to the curb. You stepped inside.

The driver asked nothing at first, only a brief glance through the mirror.

You gave him your address, your voice spilling out steady enough to pass for ordinary.

As the car pulled away, the wedding hall receded behind traffic and distance, back into the city.

Streetlights passed in predictable turns across the window, people crossed intersections with groceries, umbrellas, conversations, all the small things of life that were still in motion. No one paused for what had ended inside you an hour earlier.

And the world continued whether you liked it or not.

Months passed after that.

You lived in a smaller, quieter version of life. One that asked little of you and, in return, offered to be as predictable as it could be.

Days returned to normalcy, though dimmer at some points, as if something that used to be there had been removed from the room. Work filled the hours in tidy portions. Meals happened when they were meant to happen and nights arrived without much struggle and left the same way.

Mayu remained absent from all of it.

Sometimes your phone would light up and your hand would pause for half a second, an old reflex refusing to change.

But it was never her name.

Eventually even that instinct learned to move on.

You told yourself this was what it was supposed to look like.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like triumph and you weren’t supposed to be healed overnight. Moving on was just the slow return of ordinary things.

And you start to regain the years you had lost, with newer experiences and newer memories that took space in your mind with other people.

One afternoon, you found yourself entering the same bakery she brought you along to but without her memories lingering in the air. Warmth wrapped around you immediately, carrying sugar, butter, and something faintly floral from the baked goods cooling behind glass. 

The same display case. The same handwritten labels. The same neat rows of pastries were arranged like they had always been waiting for someone to choose carefully.

You approached the counter.

“How may I help you?” The attendant looked up with a practiced smile.

“Um, I was actually looking for a slice that I saw months ago. I’m not sure if it’s still available.”

“What was it?” They asked.

“The Gateau Debord? I think that was how you say it.” you chuckled, embarrassed by your own interpretation.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I’m afraid we just ran out.” The attendant replied.

You nodded in understanding when you heard rustling coming from the back then someone else walked out.

The same girl that had told you about the cake months ago.

She stepped out from the back with a small tray in her hands, pausing mid-step the moment her eyes landed on you.

For a fraction of a second, her expression didn’t change before recognition settled into a place where surprise had taken over.

“It’s you again—” she began, then stopped, as if deciding whether memory had the right to speak first.

You blinked once.

“Hey,” you said, because your brain defaulted to politeness before anything else could form.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked, setting the tray down on the counter and looked over the display glass.

The other attendant then explained it to her before you could continue.

“Ah, I think I could help with that.” she smiled shyly looking at the two other people in the bakery.

Moments later, you were seated by the window. Outside, the street kept moving in its unbothered rhythm. Cars slid past in muted colors. A cyclist weaved through a gap like it had been there for him alone. Somewhere down the road, a bus sighed to a stop, then carried on without hesitation.

Inside, the bakery held its warmth around you.

A small plate was placed in front of you a few minutes later.

“Here you go, our last slice of Gateau Debord.” The attendant stood in front of your table, her tray folded neatly against her chest as she bowed her head.

“I thought you guys ran out.” 

“We did…until I remembered I kept a slice hidden.” The attendant’s voice softened, eyes glancing over to yours then over to the empty seat in front of you.

You looked at her then leaned to the side to see the older attendant still at the counter.

“Does your boss know about this?”

She froze for half a second then she smiled, a little too quickly.

“It’s not exactly…against the rules,” she said, though her tone made it clear she wasn’t fully convinced by her own defense. “It was reserved. Just not officially labeled for today.”

Your eyes glossed over her nametag.

Kawai Ruka.

“Well, I’m really the type to take anything from someone else. I think you should have this.” You pushed the plate back. “I’ll take anything else.”

“R—really?” she said immediately before retracting, “I mean, you could have it.”

Her words came out too fast, like they were trying to outrun her hesitation.

You glanced at the slice on the plate again. It sat there neatly, almost too carefully presented for something that was apparently “not officially labeled for today.”

“I could,” you said, voice calm, “but it feels like something you’re supposed to regret later if you give it away that easily.”

Silence settled between you again, that wasn't uncomfortable letting the bakery’s soft hum fill it instead.

Ruka finally shifted her hands, fingers curling lightly around the edge of her apron.

“It was reserved,” she said again, softer this time, as if repeating it made it more legitimate. “Someone ordered it earlier and never picked it up. So technically… it would’ve been thrown away.”

You looked at her properly then.

“Then why don't we share it?” 

Ruka blinked.

The suggestion seemed to reach her a second later than it should have, as if it had to pass through several layers of caution before arriving somewhere she could react from.

“Share it?” she repeated.

You gave a small shrug. “That way nobody steals from anyone, nobody breaks policy, and the cake gets shared between two people who apparently want it.”

Her fingers tightened around the tray she was still holding. For a moment, you thought she might refuse out of habit alone. Some people were so practiced at declining kindness that they mistook it for discipline.

Instead, she drew in a breath and glanced toward the counter where the older attendant was busy wrapping bread for another customer.

“I can take my break now,” she said after a pause.

She disappeared for a minute and returned without the apron, her nametag removed, her hair tied back more loosely than before.

She sat across from you by the window, careful in the way people sit when they are not yet sure they are meant to stay.

You moved the plate to the center of the table.

Ruka reached for a second fork she had brought and placed it beside yours. The metal touched porcelain with a small, clear sound before she took a small piece for herself.

You held in a laugh.

“Is it good?” you asked.

Ruka paused with the fork halfway back to the plate, as if the question required more care than it should have.

She finished chewing before answering.

“It is,” she said quietly. “Though I’m not sure if that’s because it’s actually good or because I’ve wanted to try it for weeks.”

A faint smile touched her mouth, brief and sudden.

You took a bite of your own.

The cake was rich without being too much, layered with dark sponge and cream that carried a bitterness just sharp enough to keep the sweetness level. It was better than you expected, that felt fitting somehow.

“It’s good,” you admitted.

“I told you.”

She seemed to realize what she’d said only after it had left her, and her eyes lowered immediately to the plate between you.

Outside, rain began without warning.

It started as dots against the glass, then steadied into the start of a shower. People quickened their pace. A man across the street unfolded an umbrella too late for him to stay dry.

The bakery lights grew brighter.

“The next time you go here, I'll make sure to have a fresh batch waiting.” she said after a moment. 

You looked up at her.

“The next time?”

Ruka seemed to hear herself only then.

A faint flush rose to her face, subtle but noticeable. Her fingers adjusted needlessly around the fork in her hand.

“I mean,” she said carefully, eyes lowering to the plate, “if you come back here again.”

There was something earnest in the correction, and something smaller beneath it that did not want to be corrected at all.

“I guess I’ll come visit more often,” you said, a smile growing.

For a moment, she only stared at you, as if deciding whether that answer was serious or simply polite. Then she gave a small nod, the kind people offer when they do not trust themselves to say more.

Neither of you had noticed how long you had been speaking without names.

You set your fork down.

“I should probably introduce myself before I start promising things.”

Her eyes lifted again.

“You probably already saw mine,” she said softly, glancing toward where her nametag had been earlier.

“Kawai Ruka,” you said. “I saw it when you were deciding whether you wanted the slice for yourself.”

She let out a quiet laugh before trying to hide it behind her hand.

The laughter stayed in her eyes even after her mouth dropped down. 

“And you?” she asked.

You told her your name.

She repeated it once under her breath, then once again more clearly.

“It's nice to meet you.” she said before seeming surprised at herself again.

You reached your hand out then.

“Likewise.”

Ruka slowly raised hers, shaking your hand gently.

Her palm was warm from the bakery, from plates and ovens and the steady labor of the afternoon. The touch was light, careful, as though she was uncertain how much of herself she was allowed to show.

That was when you felt it.

It wasn’t recognition exactly, nor was it memory. It was something older than both. The quiet shift inside your chest when life, without warning, gives you another chance at something you once thought had closed for good.

A breath left you before you could stop it.

Ruka’s eyes lifted to yours. They were clear in a way that made them difficult to hide from, carrying the kind of sincerity that asked for nothing yet still offered something.

Outside, rain pressed softly against the glass. Inside, warmth gathered around the table, around the unfinished cake, around two people who had not expected this afternoon to go into the way that it unfolded.

You held her gaze for one second longer than strangers usually do.

And here we go again.