Sayuri Misaki
I thought silence was something empty.
Something that pressed on your ears and made you smaller.
But sitting here across from Souta, I realize silence can take a shape.
It can hold you.
It can breathe with you.
It can mean more than words.
The cup is warm in my hands. Cinnamon clings to the steam, soft and sweet. My fingers curl around it tighter, like if I let go the moment might vanish.
He bought this for me.
Without asking.
Without hesitation.
Like he already knew what I needed.
I don't know when that stopped feeling frightening.
I don't know when it started feeling safe.
I glance at him once, quickly. He isn't watching me. He's tracing his thumb along the paper sleeve of his drink, lost in thought. But even when his eyes aren't on me, I still feel seen.
Kaori's voice has been echoing in my head all day, but here… it fades.
Here, her words don't stick.
Here, I'm not fighting to hold my place.
I just exist.
And it's enough.
The rain outside starts slow, drops chasing each other down the glass. Souta shifts, like he's about to say something, but stops. I don't fill the pause. I don't rush to break the quiet. Instead, I let it sit between us—gentle, steady, patient.
For the first time, I think maybe he understands me not just the me people overlook, not just the me that stumbles when I try to speak.
The real me.
The one still learning how to stay.
When our eyes meet at last, I don't look away.
Not this time.
And the smallest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth like he's been waiting for it.
I don't know what this is becoming.
I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or the day after.
But right now—this quiet, this warmth, this fragile thread stretched between us—
I want to believe in it.
In him.
In me.
Maybe beginnings don't have to be loud.
Maybe they start like this.
With silence that doesn't hurt.
With a heartbeat steady enough to follow.
The bell over the café door rings again.
I don't look up right away.
But when I do, I wish I hadn't.
Kaori stands just inside the doorway, her umbrella dripping rainwater onto the floor. Her eyes sweep the room once, slow and deliberate, before they land on us. On me.
And in that instant, the warmth in my chest twists.
Because I know what she sees.
Two cups.
One table.
Silence she can't control.
Her smile sharpens—polished, practiced, dangerous.
The kind of smile that promises the quiet won't last.
I lower my gaze to my drink, but I don't move away.
Not this time.
Because even as fear curls at the edges of me, Souta is still here.
And for once, I don't feel like I'm facing her alone.