The apartment upstairs smelled like eucalyptus and steam.
His mother was in the shower—he could hear the rush of water behind the bathroom door and the occasional creak of old pipes trying to keep up. The sound wasn't loud, but it filled the space in a way that made everything else feel quieter. Softer.
Ryunosuke sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, the bag of pork belly resting on the kitchen counter. The lights were low—just the amber glow of the lamp near the bookshelf—and the city outside blinked lazily through the window, casting moving shadows across the walls.
He rubbed his thumb against the callus on his middle finger. The one he always got from holding pens too tight.
He hated the silence sometimes. But other times—like now—it felt like a mirror.
His sketchbook lay open on the table in front of him, but he hadn't drawn anything yet. Just an unfinished line. The curve of a shoulder. A dragon's tail. A corner of a rooftop he'd seen in Japantown but hadn't figured out how to capture.
He closed his eyes.
People said he was quiet. That he was "low-maintenance," "easygoing," "chill." But if anyone could actually see inside his head, they'd know the truth. His thoughts were never still. They just didn't spill out of his mouth the way other people's did. He didn't know how to hand them over without losing their shape.
He thought of his mom—how she could cut through noise like a blade. How she spoke Spanish with heat and English with weight. She never said more than she had to, but when she did speak, the room shifted.
He admired that. He wasn't like that. Not yet.
He let his head fall back against the cushion, eyes tracing the ceiling where the paint peeled in soft curls around the fan.
Would I still be this quiet if Dad were alive?
The thought wasn't heavy. It didn't hurt the way it used to. It just sat there—another shape he didn't know how to draw. A question that didn't need an answer, but asked itself anyway.
The water shut off.
He heard the soft clink of the shower handle and the squeak of curtain rings, followed by the familiar rustle of his mother stepping onto the bath mat. She'd be out soon—probably asking about dinner, about the rice, about whether the butcher gave them the right cut this time.
He had maybe thirty seconds left.
He reached for his pencil.
And with a single, careful stroke, he drew the cat from the alley.
Not because it meant anything.
But because it was real.
And sometimes, when the silence finally let him—that was enough.