Chapter 7: A Small Kindness
It began with a note.
Kazuki woke to find a small piece of paper taped to the kettle. Written in Ayaka's quick, slightly slanted handwriting were the words:
Don't forget to eat today. I made you lunch. In the fridge.
It was a simple thing, and yet Kazuki stood there staring at it for a long time. The apartment was silent, the kind of silence left behind by someone who had been there only moments ago.
In the fridge was a neat bento box wrapped in a patterned cloth. He took it out gently, as though afraid it might disappear.
She had packed rice shaped into clumsy hearts, tamagoyaki that was a bit too brown on the edges, and pickled vegetables arranged with awkward care. In one corner was a single onigiri with a smiley face drawn in seaweed.
Kazuki sat at the low table, chopsticks in hand, and whispered quietly to himself, "You're not alone."
Later, as he walked to the café under a pale winter sun, he passed a familiar corner where an old vending machine stood. It was always there, humming softly to itself, half-covered in graffiti and old stickers.
He remembered how once, during a particularly bad week, he had sat next to it for hours, just watching people pass by. He had felt invisible then. Like a ghost walking through a world that no longer remembered him.
Now, the memory didn't hurt as much. It still lingered, still pressed at the edges of his thoughts—but it no longer swallowed him whole.
Maybe because someone had remembered him.
At the café, business was slow. The holidays were near, but it wasn't a place people flocked to for celebration. Still, Kazuki appreciated the quiet. It gave him time to sketch between orders.
He drew without thinking: a small apartment window, a girl laughing with her eyes closed, steam rising from a bowl of miso soup. Bits of memory filtered through the pencil.
Around noon, the door chimed.
A group of high school students entered, chatting loudly. Among them was someone Kazuki recognized—not from real life, but from Ayaka's stories.
Her name was Kana. She had long black hair and a sharp voice that could slice through a room like a blade.
Kazuki watched them sit, order drinks, and pull out their phones.
He couldn't hear everything, but one sentence drifted clearly across the café:
"So that weird girl really is living with a guy, huh? Didn't think she had it in her."
Laughter followed.
Kazuki's hands froze.
He hadn't planned on speaking. He didn't want to create a scene. But something inside him moved—a quiet, firm shift, like a door being unlatched.
He stepped out from behind the counter.
"Excuse me," he said, voice calm.
The students looked up.
"If you have something to say about someone, say it directly. Don't poison the air where others have to breathe it."
Kana blinked, then smirked. "You're the guy, aren't you?"
Kazuki didn't respond. He didn't have to.
Silence fell. Then the group left, muttering.
When the door closed behind them, Kazuki let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
His boss, a grizzled man in his sixties, gave a rare nod of approval from the kitchen.
"Took guts," he said.
Kazuki only shrugged and went back to work.
That evening, he told Ayaka what had happened.
She listened without interrupting, her eyes wide and serious.
"You defended me," she said quietly.
"I couldn't do nothing."
She looked down, then back up. "People have always talked about me. I used to pretend I didn't care. Sometimes I really didn't. But lately… it's different."
"Because you're not alone anymore?"
She smiled. It was small and tired, but real. "Yeah."
Over the next week, the snow thickened. The city slowed. Students began winter break, and streets filled with couples shopping and families laughing.
Ayaka stayed home more. She read books on the couch, wrapped in an oversized sweater Kazuki had loaned her. She practiced baking, filling the apartment with smells of vanilla and cinnamon.
Some attempts failed spectacularly. One batch of cookies turned to charcoal. Another collapsed into sticky goo.
Kazuki tried every one.
"You're brave," Ayaka said, laughing.
"Or just numb to sugar."
Sometimes, she would sit by the window, staring at the street below.
"You ever think about going back?" Kazuki asked her one night.
"To my family?"
He nodded.
She hugged her knees. "Not really. I mean, sometimes. But then I remember that they made it clear—I was a burden."
Kazuki said nothing.
"But here," she continued softly, "I feel like I'm something more. Even if it's small. Even if it's just someone who keeps the apartment warm, or leaves lunch for a tired boy."
Kazuki reached over and touched her shoulder.
"You're more than that."
She looked at him.
"You're light. You don't even realize it, but you are."
They sat there a long time, neither willing to break the silence.
On New Year's Eve, Ayaka insisted they do something special.
"Even if it's just for us," she said. "We deserve a little celebration."
So they made a plan: hot pot dinner, music, and staying up until midnight.
Kazuki bought the ingredients, Ayaka decorated the room with cheap paper lanterns and little hand-drawn signs.
They cooked together, laughing when the broth spilled or when the meat slices stuck together.
As midnight neared, they sat in the center of the apartment, watching a brand new grainy TV Kazuki bought where it's showing a broadcast of the Tokyo tower countdown.
"Do you have a wish?" Ayaka asked.
"For next year?"
"Yeah."
He thought for a moment. "I want to keep going. With you. No matter how uncertain everything is."
Ayaka looked at him for a long moment.
"Then let's do it," she whispered. "Let's make this year ours."
The countdown reached zero. Fireworks burst on the screen.
Ayaka leaned in and pressed her forehead against Kazuki's.
"Happy New Year, Kazuki."
His breath caught. "Happy New Year, Ayaka."
And in that moment, amid the flicker of the TV and the warmth of soup and lanterns, they both understood:
They weren't just surviving anymore.
They were beginning to live.