The late afternoon sun streamed gently through the windows of the bakery, golden and warm. The scent of freshly baked melon bread wafted through the air, mixed with the gentle hum of the radio playing in the background. Haruka leaned against the little counter by the window, absent-mindedly wiping flour from a tray, although her hands had not moved for some time.
Kaito stood on the other side of the shop, stacking up vacant trays. Sometimes, his gaze drifted towards Haruka, as if to check if it was alright to speak.
The awkwardness had been slowly disappearing since that morning, when Grandma had teased them about how they looked together. There was still resistance, but it had softened into something less sharp, like going barefoot over stones which had finally started to warm up in the sun.
"Hey," Kaito's voice finally broke the silence. He set down the last tray and walked over, leaning against the counter beside her. "May I… talk to you for a moment?"
Haruka blinked up at him. "Sure."
They stepped outside to the small bench just beside the bakery. The sun was setting now, tinting the clouds with colors that reminded her of serene endings and languid beginnings.
They simply sat there, frozen, for a moment. The tension between them wasn't suffocating now—it just sat, quietly waiting.
"I never did say thanks," Kaito muttered, looking down at the floor. "For not bothering me… during the funeral."
Haruka shook her head from side to side. "I didn't have to. I just didn't want to interfere."
"But you did go," he said, his eyes sidelong on her. "That was more than I expected."
Haruka looked down at her hands, which rested in her lap. "I wanted to say something. But when I saw you with Ayaka, I thought maybe… I wasn't someone who should."
Kaito smiled weakly. "Ayaka is… complicated. But she's my family. I think you already know that now."
Haruka nodded, then hesitated. "You never talk about your family. Or your grandfather."
"I didn't think it was worth it," Kaito whispered. "I mean, it always felt like… talking about them would just make things heavier. And I did not want to put any more weight on anyone. Least of all you."
"But you were always there for me," Haruka breathed. "When I hit rock bottom. You lent me your time, your body warmth, those silly little sticky notes."
"They're not silly," he said quickly, with a small smile.
She smiled quietly. "Alright. They weren't. But… I never asked you anything. I was too concerned with myself."
Kaito shook his head. "I never left space for you to ask. I always pushed it aside. I didn't want you to see the mess that I carry."
They both returned to silence. Then Haruka said something, very quietly.
"What did you carry?"
Kaito took a slow breath in, then out as if it hurt him. "I lived in silence for a long time. My parents were divorced, and I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa. My mom… she worked as hard as she could, but I always felt like I was just an extra puzzle piece in her new life. Ayaka's mom was great, but I knew I wasn't mine. I always hung back. Only Grandpa could push past that, I guess."
She listened, her heart tightening.
"He never said much," Kaito continued, "but he always made me feel like I belonged. Like I didn't have to try so hard. When he died… it was like the one person who truly understood me. vanished."
Haruka bit her lip. "I'm sorry."
"I know you understand that kind of loss," he said quietly. "Not just losing someone, but losing pieces of yourself when they're gone."
She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.
"I thought being silent was safer," Haruka admitted. "That if I kept quiet, I wouldn't be judged. Or hurt. Or seen."
"But you should be seen," Kaito said to her. "And heard."
Haruka's eyes followed his. "So should you."
Their eyes met, and something soft and exposed went through the look.
"I still have bad days," Haruka confessed. "There are mornings I don't want to leave my bed. Moments, I overthink everything. Moments, I miss how your notes made me feel like I wasn't invisible."
Kaito smiled a little. "I still write them. I just haven't dared to leave them anywhere lately."
She smiled softly. "Maybe you should."
He drew from his pocket, surprising her. A crumpled yellow sticky note.
"You had one with you?"
"I wrote it a week ago," he admitted, offering it to her. "Didn't know when I'd be brave enough to show it to you."
Haruka unfolded it.
"You have the right to take up space. You have the right to love without shame."
The letters blurred a bit on the edge of her tears.
"Thanks," she whispered.
They sat there quietly for a while, the sky deepening into night.
Both of them, for the first time, were not trying to hide.