The dining room felt unnaturally quiet—like the breath the sky holds just before a storm breaks. The scent of simmering broth and grilled fish hung in the air, warm and familiar, but tonight it pressed down on my chest rather than offering comfort. It wasn't the kind of silence that invited peace. It was the kind that clung to your skin and whispered that something was wrong.
From the kitchen, Mom hummed softly to herself, the sound gentle and rhythmic as she moved between the stove and the counter. Her presence was a soothing constant, but it barely registered. My focus was locked on the empty chair beside me… and the girl sitting across the table.
Aoi.
She was composed, almost too composed—spine straight, hands resting lightly in her lap like she'd practiced it. Her eyes, those familiar eyes I used to see light up over silly jokes and stolen snacks, now darted toward me with hesitation. Fleeting. Guarded. And when they met mine, even for a second, they sent a shiver crawling up my neck. Not from warmth, but from something I couldn't quite name.
Mom placed bowls of rice before us, smiling. "Eat up. I made all your favorites."
"Thanks, Mom," I said, the words automatic. I picked up my chopsticks, trying to lean into the comfort of routine. The meal looked perfect, smelled perfect. But nothing about this moment felt right.
Across from me, Aoi lowered her gaze and began to eat—slowly, robotically. She barely touched her rice. Her movements were too careful, too precise, as though afraid even her chewing might break the fragile quiet we were clinging to.
I watched her for a moment longer than I should've. The way her fingers tensed around the chopsticks, how her lips parted as though she might say something—but then didn't. We used to laugh at this table. Tease each other. Talk about school, crushes, the dumbest things. But now? Now there was a space between us I didn't know how to cross.
"Is everything okay?" I asked, voice low.
Mom paused mid-step, casting a glance my way. Aoi, on the other hand, froze completely. Her chopsticks hovered above her plate. Her breath caught.
Her lips moved, but no sound came at first. Then, with a practiced stillness, she looked down and whispered, "Yeah. I'm fine."
The lie was so soft, it nearly disappeared in the air between us.
Mom gave a light chuckle, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. "She's just been tired. School's been stressful lately. Don't worry about her too much."
I nodded, offering a small smile I didn't feel. But in my chest, a quiet ache bloomed. It wasn't just school. It couldn't be. Not with the way she wouldn't look at me. Not with the tension in her jaw or the flicker of something unreadable behind her eyes.
We ate in silence, the clink of porcelain and the hum of kitchen appliances the only background noise. Mom talked about the neighbors and the weather and maybe taking a trip next weekend, but it all blurred together. Just static. My attention kept drifting back to Aoi.
She was still avoiding my eyes. Still barely eating.
Still not the Aoi I remembered.
I tried again, gentler this time. "Aoi… are you sure you're okay?"
She stood abruptly, her chair scraping lightly against the floor. "I'm done," she said, voice tight but even. She picked up her plate and turned away from the table, walking with a kind of restraint that made my chest tighten.
I hesitated. Then pushed back my chair and followed her gaze. "Aoi," I said quietly.
She was at the sink, hands submerged under the running water, the sound masking her silence. I stepped closer, just enough that she could hear me clearly.
"Are you okay?" I asked again. This time, it wasn't a polite question. It was a plea.
She didn't look at me. Didn't even turn her head. Her hands moved with slow, methodical precision, as if washing the dish gave her something to focus on—something to cling to.
Finally, her voice broke through the quiet, barely more than a whisper. "I said I'm fine."
But the tremor beneath her words betrayed her. And the silence that followed said everything she wouldn't.