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The autumn air in Chiba carries a crisp edge, leaves skittering across the pavement as Miwa Aoi steps out of the train station. She's twenty-two, her hair dyed a defiant shade of auburn, a leather jacket slung over her shoulders. She's back in town after a year of drifting—Tokyo's music scene chewed her up and spat her out, leaving her with a battered guitar case and a heart bruised but not broken. She's not sure why she's here, only that something pulled her back to the familiar streets of her teenage years.
Hikigaya Hachiman, now twenty-three, slouches on a bench outside a convenience store, nursing a can of black coffee. His eyes, sharp and cynical, scan the world with the same detached scrutiny he's honed since high school. He's working a dead-end job at a local publishing house, editing manuscripts that make his soul ache with their mediocrity.
Life feels like a loop—same routines, same disappointments. He's not looking for change, but change has a way of finding him.
Their paths cross when Miwa, distracted by her phone, trips over Hachiman's outstretched legs. Her guitar case clatters to the ground, and she curses loudly, drawing stares. Hachiman's first instinct is to ignore her—another loud, chaotic person intruding on his peace—but her eyes catch his. They're fierce, unguarded, and something in them makes his chest tighten.
"Sorry," she mutters, brushing dirt off her case. "Didn't see you there, loner."
Hachiman raises an eyebrow. "Loner's a bold assumption from someone who just faceplanted in public."
She grins, unabashed, and plops onto the bench beside him. "Miwa Aoi. Musician, disaster, whatever. You got a name, or should I just call you Coffee Guy?"
"Hikigaya Hachiman," he says, wary but intrigued. Her energy is overwhelming, like a song played too loud, yet he doesn't tell her to leave.
They talk—tentatively at first. Miwa's blunt, her words spilling out like she's afraid of silence. She tells him about her failed gigs, the way music feels like her pulse but betrays her every time. Hachiman, against his better judgment, shares a sliver of his own truth: the monotony of his job, the way he's stopped expecting anything from life. There's a spark in their banter, a push-and-pull that feels dangerous and alive.
As the sun dips below the horizon, Miwa stands, slinging her guitar over her shoulder. "You're not as boring as you look, Hikigaya. See you around?"
He shrugs, but his eyes linger on her retreating figure, the sway of her hips, the way her jacket hugs her frame. His pulse quickens, a sensation he hasn't felt in years. He tells himself it's nothing—just a fleeting encounter. But as he walks home, her voice echoes in his mind, sharp and unignorable.
Miwa, too, feels the weight of their meeting. In her cramped apartment, she strums her guitar, the notes jagged Sex Pistols' "Anarchy in the U.K." blaring from a cheap radio. Her thoughts keep drifting to Hachiman—those dark, guarded eyes, the way his sarcasm matched her own. She's used to fleeting connections, but something about him clings to her, like a melody she can't shake.
That night, Hachiman lies awake, staring at the ceiling. His body hums with a restless energy, his skin too tight. He thinks of Miwa's laugh, the way her lips curved, full and unapologetic. His hand drifts downward, almost unconsciously, and he stops himself, embarrassed. He's not some hormonal teenager. Yet the thought of her lingers, intrusive and vivid.
Miwa, alone in her bed, feels a similar heat. Her fingers trace the curve of her thigh, slow and deliberate, as she imagines Hachiman's voice—low, sardonic, but with an edge that makes her shiver. She wonders what it would be like to unravel him, to see that composure crack.
Neither knows it yet, but their collision has set something in motion—a slow burn that will consume them both.