Sunday mornings in early spring always smell like detergent and sunlight.
Ren wakes to both—the soft hum of the washer from a neighboring unit, and the thin beam of light stretching across his desk. His phone alarm doesn't ring anymore; it doesn't need to. His body keeps time on its own.
He rolls up, half in a daze, pulls on a jacket, and looks out the window. The sky is washed clean, pale and endless. A breeze lifts the edge of the curtain—gentle, like a tap on the shoulder.
He's supposed to rest today, but habit doesn't rest easily.
Across town, Aoi is propped against her bedroom wall, scrolling through playlists instead of homework. Her knee feels stiff, but not painful. That's progress, even if she won't admit it.
Hana's texts light up the screen:
Hana: 12PM. Cat café. no excuses
Rika: bring the brace it's part of your outfit now
Mei: i made u a small towel for your ice pack 🐱
Aoi smiles despite herself. "You guys are ridiculous."
She types ok, adds a heart, then erases it. Too much.
Her reflection in the mirror looks less pale than it did a week ago. Her hair's tied up messily, bangs soft against her cheeks. She looks—normal. Almost.
She ties her shoelaces and whispers to the mirror, "Let's make it through one day without thinking about track."
She doesn't believe it, but it's a start.
Ren takes the long route to the park. He tells himself he's just getting groceries, but the bag in his hand is empty. The air has that lazy Sunday quiet—bicycles coasting, children laughing somewhere unseen, wind teasing the tops of trees.
He ends up near the track anyway. Not close enough to be noticed, but close enough to hear. The sound of shoes against rubber, the short huffs of breath—his mind fills in the gaps like an old melody he can't forget.
A few middle schoolers are practicing with borrowed batons, one boy leading the group with a grin that reminds him of his old teammates. They're messy, off rhythm, terrible exchanges—but they're laughing.
Ren watches them longer than he should. When the baton drops, no one yells. They just pick it up and start again.
For a moment, something in his chest aches—not like regret, but nostalgia he's finally learning to live with.
At the cat café, Aoi sits between Hana and Rika, pretending not to check her phone. The place smells of coffee and soft fur, walls covered with paw prints and Polaroids of regular visitors.
"Look!" Hana points at a white cat sprawled over a cushion. "That's your twin, Aoi."
"Because it's graceful?"
"Because it's judging everyone in silence."
Mei hides a giggle behind her cup. "You do that, too."
Aoi crosses her arms. "I'm not that bad."
Her phone buzzes lightly.
She glances down.
Ren: Remember to stretch tonight. Don't skip the last set.
She feels her chest warm—not because of the reminder, but because he didn't have to send it.
Rika leans over immediately. "Who's that?"
"Nobody."
"Oh no," Hana says, grinning. "That's a 'nobody' text face."
"Drop it."
"Is it the assistant?"
Aoi stares at her coffee. "It's for rehab."
"Uh-huh. Totally."
The girls share knowing looks, and Aoi groans into her cup.
By evening, the day's warmth has settled into her room like a blanket. Aoi sits cross-legged on the floor, towel beneath her leg, timer glowing. She presses start and exhales.
Heel slides. Quad sets. Five-second holds.
Her mind drifts as she moves—toward the cat café, her friends, the laughter, the sunlight—and, inevitably, toward Ren. The way he always listens without trying to fix things. The way he never looks surprised by what she says, only interested.
When she finishes the second set, she checks her messages again.
Aoi: Done.
Aoi: Didn't skip the last set.
Ren: I figured.
Aoi: You really don't trust people, do you?
Ren: I trust results.
She stares at the screen. Then, without thinking, she types:
Aoi: You should learn to relax.
No response for a while. She assumes he's asleep.
Then:
Ren: You first.
She smiles.
Ren's sitting by his window again, notebook open. He's written exactly three words tonight before stopping: Patience builds speed.
He looks at the text, then at the moonlight on the paper. His reflection in the glass looks a little different—less locked, less tired.
He types one more message.
Ren: The cats like you?
The reply comes fast:
Aoi: Of course. Cats have taste.
Ren: Debatable.
Aoi: Wow, you are learning sarcasm.
Ren: Side effect of working weekends.
Aoi: You sound like an old man.
Ren: I feel like one.
Aoi: …Goodnight, Hayama.
Ren: Goodnight, Kisaragi.
He sets the phone down, that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again.
Outside, the wind brushes gently against the window—soft, constant, the sound of something that doesn't need to prove itself.