The cicadas were already humming when the school bell rang, a dull, shrill sound swallowed quickly by the heavy heat pressing against the windows. Moore stood from his desk slower than the others. Around him, students gathered their bags with careless chatter and hurried toward the door, their voices rising and falling like distant waves.
He walked beside Ronell in silence, their steps matching without trying. The walk home was familiar—same cracked sidewalks, same sun-warmed fences—but something about the air felt different. Slower. Almost thoughtful.
She held her bag in one hand and kept the other at her side, occasionally brushing a strand of hair back from her face. Her bangs were clipped today, small silver pins holding them neatly in place. A breeze tousled her loose pieces, but she didn't fix them. She let them move.
They passed the bakery on the corner. The scent of warm bread lingered on the breeze.
And then, softly:
"There's this café I want to show you."
Moore blinked. "Now?"
She shook her head. "Not now. Tomorrow, maybe."
He didn't answer, not right away. They walked past the rusted mailbox where someone had stuck wildflowers between the bars.
"You don't have to talk," she added, her voice light, almost playful. "Just come sit."
He kept his eyes on the ground ahead. The sunlight made everything glow—leaves, sidewalks, even the dust in the air. His shoulder brushed hers for half a second.
"You always say that like it's easy," he murmured.
Ronell smiled without turning. "Sometimes it is."
They didn't speak again until the corner where their paths split. She turned to him, brushing a hand against her skirt to smooth it, then looked up with a question she didn't voice.
He stared back. Tired, as always. But less closed off.
"Fine," he said. "I'll come."
She gave a quiet nod—no triumph, no excitement. Just that gentle acknowledgment of something shared.
Then they parted, the warm hum of summer buzzing in the trees behind them.
---
The café sat tucked between two older buildings, its painted sign slightly faded by years of sun. Ivy crept up the bricks like it had nowhere better to be. Inside, it was cooler—dim but not dark, lit by scattered bulbs and soft golden light pouring in through tall windows.
Bookshelves lined the walls like quiet, waiting guardians. Some leaned with age. Others stood proud and new, filled with stories that hadn't yet been touched. The scent of ink and old pages mingled with something sweet—citrus peel steeping in warm tea, maybe a hint of vanilla from a scone tray behind the counter.
Ronell led him to a corner seat beneath a hanging fern. She didn't ask if he liked it.
She just knew he would.
Moore sank into the chair like he was letting out a breath. He didn't reach for a menu. Didn't ask what was good. His eyes scanned the high shelves, the dust motes drifting slowly in the afternoon light.
Ronell returned with two mugs. Hers had steam curling upward—something floral and soft. His sat untouched, but he wrapped his hands around it anyway, just for the warmth.
They didn't speak for a long time. Ronell opened a small, cloth-bound notebook and began to write—half-thoughts, sketches, memories. Moore didn't look at the pages.
He looked at her.
Not in a romantic way. Not even in awe.
Just… wondering how she stayed so still. So certain.
Finally, quietly:
"I don't think I know how to be normal."
He hadn't meant to say it aloud. But the words came out anyway.
Ronell didn't flinch. Didn't lift her gaze from the page.
"Me neither," she replied softly.
She scribbled something else down—then closed the book gently, like it contained something fragile.
Their mugs sat side by side, half full. Outside, the light was changing. The bookstore's wooden floor creaked with someone's movement far away. No music played. Just the soft murmur of pages turning.
Moore leaned back, eyes closed for a breath.
And for once, he didn't feel like he had to leave.
---
The sky had dimmed into velvet by the time they stepped out of the café.
Laughter echoed from blocks away. Music, distant and uneven, floated down the streets like it was following them. Colorful paper lanterns swayed gently above food stalls and vendor booths, casting amber light that flickered across smiling faces and open hands exchanging treats.
The summer festival was in full swing.
Ronell's eyes lit up when she heard the first crack of fireworks in the distance.
"We're already out," she said, bumping her shoulder lightly into Moore's. "Might as well keep going."
He gave her a look — tired, unsure — but he followed.
The festival square was crowded. Groups of friends in matching yukata leaned close together, laughing under the glow. Children ran between stalls with candied apples and sparklers. The scent of grilled sweet corn and caramel filled the air.
Ronell's friends were easy to spot—clustered by a drink stand, waving her over. Most wore soft summer kimonos in pastel hues. Ronell didn't.
She glanced down at her shorts and cotton blouse—simple, a little too practical—and shrugged. "I'm here for the fireworks," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
No one seemed to care. At least, not out loud.
The boy who had grown quite familiar with Ronell was among them. He smiled when he saw her.
"Didn't think you'd come dressed like that," he teased, trying to sound casual, but his eyes lingered just a second too long.
Ronell rolled her eyes with a quiet grin. "I could still beat you in a race in this outfit."
He laughed, stepping closer. Too close, maybe. Their shoulders almost touched. They started talking—quiet, familiar.
From behind the group, Moore stood silent, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket, watching. One of Ronell's friends turned to him with a half-smirk.
"Careful, Moore. Looks like someone's trying to steal your sister away."
Moore didn't reply. He kept his gaze fixed forward until Ronell glanced over, sensing it. Their eyes met.
He looked away, pretending to examine a stall selling lantern keychains.
But something in his chest stayed taut.
---
Later, after they'd climbed a quiet hill just beyond the crowds — the fireworks bloomed above them. Explosions of gold and violet burst across the sky, lighting Ronell's face in soft pulses of color.
They sat side by side on the grass. Close. Quiet.
And just behind them, on the edge of the path, a small black cat sat perfectly still—barely a shape in the darkness, its yellow eyes bright and unblinking.
Moore saw it.
But this time, he didn't flinch.
He just watched. With it.
Ronell's fingers brushed gently against his hand—not a full grasp, but enough.
"You're quiet," she said, eyes still on the sky.
"He stood close to you," Moore murmured.
Ronell blinked, turning toward him slightly. "What?"
"That guy. From earlier." A pause. "I don't care. Just… noticed."
She didn't answer immediately. Just looked at him.
Then, softly, "He's a friend. That's all."
Moore gave a small nod. He didn't say anything more. He didn't have to.
The fireworks crackled above them, briefly painting the world in light.
And behind them, the cat remained. Silent. Watching.