The dining room held its breath.
There was food on the table. There was warmth in the air. But the silence that wrapped around us was not the comforting kind. It did not settle into the creases of home or offer peace like a soft sigh. No, this silence watched from the corners, thick and expectant, like a storm crouched behind the clouds, listening, waiting to strike.
The scent of grilled mackerel and long-simmered miso curled through the room, rich and familiar, but it didn't soothe. It pressed against my chest like memory turned into weight. Soy, ginger, dashi; all the smells of childhood still lingered, but now they mingled with something else. Something colder. Something that didn't belong.
From the kitchen, Mom hummed a tune. The same old melody she always used to sing while chopping scallions or rinsing rice. Her voice moved like a fragile thread through the walls, soft and worn by time. Once, I would have found comfort in it. I would've smiled. But not tonight.
Not now.
My gaze drifted to the chair beside me. Empty.
Then slowly, to the girl sitting across from me.
Aoi.
Her posture was impeccable. Too impeccable. Her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, every inch of her stillness was too rehearsed, too deliberate. Like porcelain waiting to crack.
Her eyes. Those warm, mischievous eyes I remembered. They were brown like autumn, like the color of old memories. And yet tonight they flickered with something unfamiliar. Not anger. Not sadness.
Distance.
She looked at me once, barely. A hesitant glance, quickly stolen back. When our eyes finally met, just for a breath, it pierced through me like frost. Not from cold. But from the sharp, aching unfamiliarity of seeing someone you once knew by heart… and realizing you no longer did.
Mom set the rice down with a gentle clink.
"Eat up," she said, brushing her palms against her apron. "I made all your favorites."
I nodded, my voice hollow. "Thanks, Mom."
The words came out shaped like gratitude, but they carried no warmth. I reached for my chopsticks on instinct, trying to act normal. Trying to pretend the world hadn't changed. That the table was just a table, and not some quiet battlefield lined with invisible fences.
The food looked perfect. It even smelled like home.
But nothing about this moment felt real.
Across from me, Aoi lowered her gaze. She picked at her rice with mechanical precision. One grain at a time. Her movements were quiet, cold. Not out of shyness, but caution. Every motion calculated, like she was afraid the air itself might shatter if she moved too quickly.
I watched her. Longer than I should have.
Her fingers trembled just slightly against the chopsticks. Her shoulders were wound tight beneath her blouse. Her lips parted, almost. And then didn't. She shut her mouth again without a word. We used to laugh in this room. Steal food off each other's plates. Talk about cartoons and classmates and stupid crushes. Our knees used to knock under this very table. But now?
Now there was only the space between us.
Vast.
Frozen.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
I kept my voice low, gentle. But even then, it felt like too much. Mom glanced over her shoulder briefly. Aoi didn't answer. Her chopsticks hovered in the air.
Then finally, she set them down.
Her lips moved, slowly.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
The lie was delicate. It fell from her mouth so softly it could've disappeared if I hadn't been listening for it... if I hadn't already known it wasn't true.
Mom chuckled lightly, trying to sweep the tension aside.
"She's just tired. School's been a bit much lately. You know how it is. Don't worry so much."
I forced a smile. It didn't reach my eyes.
I didn't believe her.
Not with how Aoi's hands stayed frozen in her lap. Not with the flicker of something unspoken that passed over her face when she thought I wasn't looking. Not with the way the silence had thickened between us like fog.
We tried to eat.
Porcelain clicked against porcelain. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, the wind brushed gently against the glass. Mom spoke about the neighborhood. The garden. The trip she wanted to take next weekend. Her voice floated in and out like a fading radio signal.
But I wasn't listening.
I kept looking at Aoi.
She hadn't touched her food.
She hadn't looked at me again.
And she still wasn't the girl I remembered.
I tried again. This time, softer.
"Aoi… are you sure?"
She stood up.
The chair scraped back across the floor. The sound was small, but sharp, like a blade dragged across porcelain. She didn't meet my eyes.
"I'm done," she said.
Her tone was even. Too even. Like she'd practiced it. She picked up her plate with both hands; carefully, almost reverently as if the smallest crack in her voice or movement might betray her.
I hesitated. Then stood.
"Aoi."
She didn't turn.
She walked to the sink and placed her plate inside. The tap turned on with a steady hiss. Her hands moved beneath the water, pale and still under the kitchen light. Her back remained straight. Too straight.
I took a step forward. Not close enough to touch, just enough to feel the distance between us more clearly.
"Aoi," I said again.
This time it wasn't a question. It wasn't even a name.
It was a plea.
Still, she didn't answer. Her fingers moved slowly, methodically, beneath the stream of water. Again and again. Like it was the only thing tethering her to the present. To herself.
Then, finally; barely above a whisper
"I said I'm fine."
But her voice cracked on the last word.
And in that fragile tremble, everything she couldn't say unraveled. All the silence. All the weight. All the broken things buried beneath her ribs.
I said nothing.
I couldn't.
I only stood there, watching the girl I once knew vanish behind a wall I didn't know how to cross.
And I understood.
Whatever had changed her...
Wasn't simple.
And it wasn't over.