The morning sun spilled gently across Hana's small apartment, but the warmth did little to ease the heaviness in her chest. She sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest, watching the world outside stir to life. Birds flitted between rooftops, their wings catching the light in glimmers of silver. Neighbors moved along the street below, chatting as they carried groceries or hurried to work. To anyone else, it was an ordinary day, yet for Hana, it carried the weight of unspoken questions.
Ren's words from the riverside still lingered in her mind: *You're the one I want beside me.* They had comforted her in the moment, grounding her trembling heart. But now, in the solitude of her apartment, doubt resurfaced like waves against fragile stone. She wanted to believe in him, in them, but belief felt fragile, easily shaken by memories of his easy smile with someone else.
She turned to her sketchbook, flipping through pages filled with blossoms, rivers, and rooftops. Every drawing carried a piece of him, because whether she admitted it or not, Ren had become part of her vision of the world. Yet as her pencil hovered over the blank page, she found herself unable to draw. The image in her mind was clear—a scene of Ren, camera in hand, smiling at someone else—but her hand refused to trace it.
Instead, Hana closed the book with a sigh and reached for her phone. Her fingers scrolled through their old messages: small fragments of their growing bond. She reread his simple words—*Did you eat?* *The sky reminded me of you today.* *Let's meet under the blossoms tomorrow.*—and her chest ached with longing. But her screen remained empty of new notifications.
Ren had promised to be there, to unlearn his solitude. Yet here she was again, waiting.
By the time noon arrived, Hana decided she couldn't sit inside any longer. She stepped into the streets, the summer air warm against her skin, and wandered without direction. The city was alive—vendors calling out their wares, children tugging their parents toward ice cream stands, musicians playing by the square. The vibrancy contrasted sharply with the silence inside her heart.
She ended up at the café where she and Ren had first sat together. The small corner table was empty, as though waiting for them. Hana slid into the seat and ordered tea, the familiarity of the space both comforting and cruel. Memories pressed against her: Ren's quiet observations, the way his eyes softened when she spoke, the rhythm of their silences that had felt like shared language.
As she stirred her tea absentmindedly, a voice broke through her reverie.
"Back here again?"
Hana looked up to find Mika, the café owner's daughter, smiling at her. They had spoken a few times before, Mika always quick to notice regulars.
Hana forced a smile. "Yes. I guess this place feels… safe."
Mika tilted her head, studying her. "Safe, or nostalgic?"
Hana hesitated before answering softly, "Both."
Mika slid into the seat across from her, ignoring the mild protest of a server who called her back to work. "You look like someone waiting for someone," Mika said with gentle bluntness.
Hana's lips curved in a faint, almost bitter smile. "Maybe I am."
Mika didn't press, but her eyes held understanding. "Sometimes, waiting feels like proof of love. Other times, it's just proof that you're afraid to move without them."
The words struck Hana deeper than she expected. She lowered her gaze, unsure how to respond.
Before she could find the words, the café door opened, and in walked Ren.
Her heart lurched. He looked as composed as always—camera slung over his shoulder, hair slightly tousled, expression unreadable. Yet his eyes immediately found hers, as though he had known she would be here.
"Hana," he said, crossing the room quickly.
Mika stood, giving Hana's shoulder a light squeeze before slipping away. "Looks like you don't need me here."
Ren sat across from Hana, his gaze searching her face. "I went by your apartment. You weren't there."
"I needed air," she replied, her voice even.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile. Ren's hands rested on the table, fingers curling slightly as though resisting the urge to reach for hers.
Finally, he said, "You're pulling away."
The directness of his words startled her. She opened her mouth, then closed it, struggling to shape her emotions into language. "I'm… trying to protect myself," she admitted finally.
Ren's expression softened, though his eyes were clouded with regret. "From me?"
Hana's breath caught. She wanted to say no, to reassure him, but the truth lingered too close. "From the parts of you I don't understand yet," she whispered.
Ren leaned forward, his voice low but steady. "Then let me show you those parts. Don't shut me out because of shadows you've imagined."
Her chest tightened. "It's not imagination when I saw you smiling at someone else," she said, the words spilling before she could stop them.
Ren inhaled sharply, as though struck. "Hana—"
"I know you said it meant nothing," she continued, her voice trembling. "But when I see you like that, I can't help wondering if I'm enough."
The vulnerability in her confession silenced the space between them. For a moment, Ren said nothing, only studying her with an intensity that made her want to look away. Finally, he spoke.
"You are more than enough. But if my carelessness makes you doubt that, then I'll do whatever it takes to make it clear. Hana, I don't want you to just be part of my days. I want you to be the reason they matter."
Her breath shuddered, tears prickling at her eyes. The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like warmth after a storm, but the ache of uncertainty still lingered.
"I want to believe you," she whispered.
"Then believe me," he said, reaching across the table and gently covering her hand with his. His touch was steady, patient, but his eyes pleaded for her trust.
For a long moment, Hana simply stared at their joined hands, her heart caught between fear and hope. The café around them faded into background noise—the clinking of cups, the hum of conversation, the faint music playing overhead.
Finally, she let out a soft breath. "I'll try again. But, Ren… don't make me regret it."
His lips curved into a faint, almost pained smile. "I won't."
They sat in silence after that, but it was a different silence—no longer brittle and heavy, but tentative, like a bridge slowly being rebuilt. Hana didn't know what tomorrow would bring, or if her fears would resurface, but for now, she chose to stay.
And sometimes, choosing to stay was enough.