Chapter 14: Threads of Quiet
Morning came slow and pale, the kind that seemed to tread softly on the edges of wakefulness.
The apartment was quiet, save for the low ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional creak of settling wood. Kazuki was the first to stir, his body used to the rhythm of early hours.
He found himself in the kitchen, boiling water for tea, not out of habit but necessity. Lately, he had come to appreciate the rituals of morning—not just for their structure, but for the gentle silence they offered.
Ayaka joined him a few minutes later, her presence subtle but grounding. She wore one of his oversized shirts again like it's her own daily thing in the apartment now as his roommate, her hair tied up carelessly.
"I dreamt about snow," she said, rubbing her eyes.
Kazuki raised an eyebrow. "Snow?"
"Yeah. Not the cold and icy kind. The quiet kind. The kind that makes the world feel muffled, like someone turned the volume down."
He handed her a cup of tea. "You really like quiet a lot, huh. Good for you."
"Maybe because I grew up around too much noise."
They sat together at the small table. It had become a kind of morning altar—where silence was offered, where memories came to rest.
Later that day, they ventured out to a nearby neighborhood market. The weather had turned brisk, wind curling around their jackets. Ayaka tugged her scarf higher around her chin, while Kazuki adjusted the bag on his shoulder.
They didn't talk much, but the closeness between them didn't need words. Their steps aligned naturally now, like threads woven from the same pattern.
At a small flower stand, Ayaka paused. She picked up a pot of lavender, fingers brushing gently over the blossoms.
"I used to help my grandmother tend a little garden like this," she said. "She said flowers don't bloom for applause. They bloom because it's in their nature."
Kazuki looked at her with full care. "I think that's true for a lot of people too."
She smiled. "Some people forget how to bloom. Or they think they're not allowed to."
They bought the lavender. And of course Kazuki insist buying it for her.
Back home, Ayaka repotted it in a chipped ceramic container she found under the sink. She placed it on the window sill in the kitchen, where the light came in strongest.
"Let's name it," she said.
Kazuki leaned on the counter. "Name the plant?"
"Yeah. Everything that lives deserves a name."
He chuckled. "Okay, what about... Solon."
"Solon?"
"It means wisdom. And peace."
She gave him a thoughtful look. "When I get to know the meaning... That's actually kind of beautiful. Solon it is."
The lavender sat quietly in the sun, its name now part of their little world.
...
That evening, Ayaka pulled out her sketchpad again. She'd taken to sitting on the floor near the balcony, where the late sunlight drew lines across her paper. Kazuki watched her from the couch, the soft scratch of pencil on paper filling the room.
"Can I see?" he asked after a while.
She turned the pad around. It was a sketch of their tiny kitchen—the teapot, the lavender, the small table. But it was drawn through the lens of memory, warm and glowing.
"You made it look so... nostalgic."
"It already is."
He tilted his head. "We're still living it."
"That doesn't mean we can't miss it. Even now."
Kazuki considered that. She had a way of finding depth in the present, of seeing time not as linear but folded—like memories were just another room in the house.
"You should put these together sometime," he said. "A book. Your drawings. Little thoughts beside them."
"Would you read it?"
"I'd read it more than once."
She smiled, tucking her knees to her chest.
Night came slowly. Kazuki made dinner while Ayaka played music—a soft playlist of hers, full of strange but soothing melodies. They ate side by side, the conversation light but meaningful.
After, Ayaka pulled out a board game she'd found while cleaning the closet.
"Let's play."
Kazuki raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem like the competitive type."
"I'm not. I just want to see you try."
They played until the candles burned low and laughter filled the room. It was the kind of laughter that made the air feel warmer.
When she finally beat him, she threw her arms up in mock celebration.
"Victory tastes sweet!"
Kazuki smiled. "I let you win."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
She grinned and leaned back against the couch. "This... this is what I want to remember about being seventeen. Not school. Not pressure. Not grades. Just... this."
He looked at her. "Then let's make it worth remembering."
Before bed, Kazuki stood by the window, watching the city lights blink like stars. Ayaka joined him, slipping her hand into his.
"Do you think we're healing?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away.
"I think... we're learning to be less afraid."
"Of each other?"
"Of ourselves. Of needing someone."
Ayaka leaned her head on his shoulder. "Needing someone isn't weakness. It's human."
"I'm still learning that."
She squeezed his hand. "Me too."
As they prepared for sleep, Ayaka stood at the doorway to her room and looked back at him.
"Will you stay?" she asked softly.
Kazuki blinked. "In your room?"
She nodded.
He hesitated only a second. "Okay."
They lay side by side on the futon, close but not touching at first. The darkness wrapped around them gently.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
"Yes. I just... I sleep better knowing you're near."
He didn't respond. He simply reached out and let their hands touch.
It was enough.
The night didn't demand anything more.
And somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, a train passed, the world turned.
But inside that small apartment, two people lay quietly side by side, no longer afraid of the quiet.
Not because it was empty.
But because now, it was shared.