It's been three weeks since that night outside the restaurant. Three oddly normal weeks that still didn't feel normal at all.
Half-shared lunches became routine. Our desks stayed the same, but the space between us felt like it kept shrinking slowly and cautiously. Lin started using my charger like it was hers. I stopped pretending I didn't notice.
Nothing had been defined. There were no conversations starting with "So, what are we?" Not yet. But something was there.
I'd catch her watching me during meetings, just for a second. She'd slide her chair a little closer than she needed to during brainstorms. Once, I left her favorite strawberry yogurt in the fridge with a sticky note that read "Not for Kenji. Ever." She pretended not to smile when she saw it, but she opened it before noon. That's how I knew.
Kayla figured things out embarrassingly fast. I didn't even say anything. One day, during lunch, she gave me this knowing glance, the kind that said "I've seen enough romantic dramas to spot this a mile away." She didn't push. Just leaned over, stole a fry off my tray, and said, "Took you long enough." Then she talked about a new K-drama like nothing had happened.
Kenji, somehow, remained blissfully unaware. Or maybe he was just pretending. He made a comment once about the office feeling warmer lately, then blamed it on the AC.
But tonight felt different.
It was one of those late Fridays where the office emptied early. People rushed out with weekend plans, the way they always do when the weather's just starting to turn nice. Lin and I stayed behind, stuck waiting for a document export that was dragging its feet.
We ended up in the break room, sharing the small couch by the vending machine. The lights were dim, the overhead ones shut off except for the ones near the hallway. It made everything feel a little softer.
She had her legs tucked beneath her, leaning slightly toward me. We weren't touching. But it would've taken nothing to close the gap.
"So," she said, bumping her shoulder lightly against mine. "It's Friday. Are you alive?"
"Barely," I answered. "I think I've been running on granola bars and caffeine since Wednesday."
She smirked, then looked away. "That's your own fault. You didn't have to stay late with me."
I shrugged. "I didn't want to leave you here alone."
She blinked once, like she hadn't expected that answer. Then she nodded slowly and rested her chin on her hand.
"I didn't think staying would make things feel more complicated," she said after a while.
"Do they feel complicated?"
She took a bit longer to answer. "Not... in a bad way. Just different. Like every day I wonder if we're still pretending not to notice what's happening."
"I don't really want to pretend," I said. "Not anymore."
I glanced over. Her expression was steady, but her foot was tapping softly under the table.
There was comfortable silence that followed.
Then she reached into her bag and pulled out something small, wrapped in brown paper and tied with the laziest ribbon I'd ever seen.
"I was gonna wait until next week," she said, carefully handing it over, "but I'm not really good at being patient."
I raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"
She shrugged. "Probably."
Inside was a mug. White, a little heavier than I expected, with text printed neatly on the front.
Emotionally Stunted
I stared at it. Then I looked up at her.
"You're kidding."
She shook her head and pulled out a second mug from her tote. Same design. But hers said:
So Am I
We both cracked up, laughing in that kind of way that made your stomach hurt, even though nothing was all that funny. It just felt good.
I looked down at the mugs, then back at her.
"Is this your way of saying we're a disaster?"
She leaned her head back and gave me a small, tired smile.
"I think it's my way of saying- we're trying. In our own weird way."
My heart did this strange little dance in my chest.
"I'm still scared," I admitted quietly.
Her gaze dropped to our hands. "Me too. But I think I'd be more scared if nothing changed at all."
Without thinking, I reached over. Our fingers fit like they'd done it a hundred times already.
She didn't pull away.
We sat like that for a long while. No more words, just this easy silence where everything still felt new but not fragile.
Eventually, the document finished exporting with a soft ding. Neither of us moved right away.
We sat like that until the document finally finished exporting. Neither of us moved.
When we finally stood up to leave, she grabbed her phone off the table. It buzzed in her hand as she unlocked it. She glanced at the screen, and something about her posture shifted.
I didn't ask, but she turned the screen toward me anyway.
A single text, short and direct.
[Unknown Number]: Still reconsidering? Osaka's door is never really closed.
She didn't say anything right away.
And this time, neither did I.
Because the silence said enough.
Her eyes stayed on the screen a little longer before she locked her phone and slid it into her coat pocket. We stood near the elevator in silence, neither of us making the first move.
"I thought that was done," I said finally.
"So did I," she replied.
The elevator dinged. We stepped in together.
She didn't let go of my hand.
Outside, the city had already moved on to the weekend. Lights flickered in shops, traffic rolled past like background noise. The kind of night that wrapped around you gently without asking questions.
We stood on the curb for a moment. No plans. No direction. Somewhere in that silence, I knew things wouldn't stay the same. Not completely. And maybe that was okay.
Then, just before we reached the corner where we usually split, I heard voices behind us.
Kenji and Kayla.
He was holding two takeout bags, one swinging from each hand like he wasn't sure which one to give her. She was pretending not to smile while pretending to be annoyed.
"Kenji, if you try to pass me cold fries again, I swear to god-"
"They're not cold. They're- erm- artistically room temp," he said. "Besides, I got you extra sauce."
"You only did that because I threatened to block your Spotify again."
He shrugged. "You only did that because I said your playlist peaked in 2016."
Lin glanced back, then nudged me.
We watched as Kayla finally took both bags and walked ahead. Kenji followed, still talking, still grinning like someone who had no idea how deep he already was.
"Do you think they'll ever admit it?" Lin asked quietly.
"Nope," I said. "But they'll keep circling each other until one of them accidentally proposes over fries."
We stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.
She looked down at our still-intertwined hands, then up at me.
"I don't have an answer yet," she said softly.
"You don't need to."
The light changed. We stepped forward.
"I'm not running to Osaka," she added.
I didn't ask her to. But hearing it still made something shift in my chest.
We walked a little slower than usual. The air smelled like the end of summer and something new, and maybe it wasn't a conclusion. Not exactly. Maybe it was just a moment before the next one.
Somewhere in the distance, Kayla's voice echoed, "If you play that playlist on the way home, I'm jumping out of the car."
Then Kenji's: "You won't. You hate walking."
Lin laughed beside me. I smiled without meaning to. Maybe none of us had it figured out yet, but maybe we didn't need to. Not tonight, and definitely not alone.