Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Miku:

I had known. We all knew. But none of us did anything. I had done nothing. I believed I had forgotten you. I truly did. It had been ten years, after all. Ten long years since you had made your choice, eight since that happened. With time, my regret and guilt had faded into something quieter, less consuming.

I told myself that the days we spent laughing and learning, the moments you scolded me, the times you praised me while patting my head, had all sunk quietly into the past. That your scowl, your resolve and determination, everything that made you you, had been worn down by time and scattered like dust to the wind. That all we shared, all we once imagined, had become nothing more than a drifting thought—suspended on the still surface of memory, distant and untouchable. I thought I had let go of every trace of you. Our memories were but a figment of the past, lost over the passage of time. Never did I think I would see you again.

I still remember it now. I had heard the ringing of the little bell hanging above the entrance to my restaurant, and had looked up from my work, only to see… you. At first, I didn’t recognise you. Time had run its course—and you had changed. The boy I once knew was gone. In his place stood a man: broader now, steadier, your jaw set with a strength I didn’t remember. Your hair was neater now. Your face, sharper. Older. But it was unmistakably you. I heard you give your name at the counter for your order: Uesugi Futarou.

When I heard that, I dropped a plate. The sound had echoed too loudly in the kitchen, leaving me frozen, heart hammering in my chest, afraid that you might turn around and see me. But you didn’t. You never did. You ordered, ate, paid, and left—efficient as always. And you came alone. Always alone. Usually late, when the dinner rush had thinned and the restaurant exhaled into something calmer. You sat at the same seat, shoulders slightly hunched, like you were trying not to take up space.

I learned the rhythm of your visits but I could never work up the courage to look you in the eye. You came every Friday, ordering either the cheapest item on the menu or whatever was on sale. The initial joy in seeing you, and that your frugal spending habits hadn’t changed, was overpowered by something stronger: shame. Usually, looking out of the kitchen and seeing my customers smile with satisfaction at my food, I would be filled with an immense sense of pride and joy. The occasional praise and compliments carried by the wind through the service window, music to my ears. However, watching you, my happiness curdled into something bitter.

You ate mechanically, not for taste but for effect, as if the food were nothing more than fuel, reducing eating to its most basic form, a necessity to keep you alive. Sometimes, you smiled a little, and as I watched I would feel over the moon that my food could still bring you some form of comfort. That is, until I noticed that the smile could never quite reach your eyes. You became a regular customer, whether that was because you genuinely enjoyed my food, or just because my restaurant was the most convenient and had the cheapest prices for you, I didn’t know—and didn’t want to know. I feared the answer.

Every Friday, I found myself watching the clock, awaiting your punctual arrival at 10pm. I memorised the way you entered, the soft chime of the bell announcing you before I ever saw your face. I noticed how your shoulders seemed to sink a little more each time, how your gaze lingered on nothing in particular, how you avoided conversation even when spoken to. You were present, but only barely—like someone passing through rather than belonging anywhere. Your eyes were open, but unfocused, empty, with dark shadows clinging beneath them. Your posture sagged, shoulders slumped as if holding yourself upright required effort you no longer possessed. There was no tension in your face—no anger, no sorrow—just a blank stillness. Even your breathing seemed shallow, measured, as though you were conserving energy simply to exist. When you moved, it was with a quiet slowness, each step deliberate, as if each step required permission from a body reluctant to obey. The fire inside you, the fire that used to burn so bright with passion, had extinguished. All that was left was your body, a hollow shell, the soul inside long gone.

I hated myself for noticing. I hated myself more for caring. Sometimes, I wondered if this was punishment. If this was what I deserved for knowing and doing nothing—for choosing cowardice over honesty. Time may have dulled my regret, but the weight of my guilt never left my shoulders, weighing me down, and seeing you brought it all rushing back, sharp and unrelenting. The years collapsed in on themselves, and I was no longer the woman I had become, but the girl who had stood by and watched everything fall apart.

I thought about saying your name more times than I could count, but each time, fear won. What right did I have to call out to you now? What could I possibly say that wouldn’t reopen wounds better left closed? All this time, I had been lying to myself. I told myself I had changed, but seeing you brought me back to reality. I thought I was no longer the quiet girl hiding behind headphones and history books. The kitchen was loud, demanding, relentless—and I thrived in it. Cooking gave me something solid. Something I could control. My confidence had been forged in burns, long shifts, and pressure I chose to face head-on.

But no amount of growth erased regret. Sometimes I imagined walking out to you, calling your name, apologising properly. Other times, I imagined you looking at me with the same distant politeness you gave everyone else now—and I stayed where I was. In the end, I was still the girl who could do nothing but stand by and watch.

The days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and before I knew it, half a year had passed. Every day slipped by in a blink, save for Fridays, when time seemed to slow to a crawl with your arrival. I had asked my bubbly cashier to find out more about you, and while she looked at me funny, she seemed to remember that I was her employer and had no choice but to obey. Through her, I found out that you worked at the hospital next door. What small joy I had felt at finding out you were nearby was immediately demolished by my overwhelming sense of regret. So close, yet so far. You had become a doctor, unsurprising considering your grades. Head of the A&E department as well, which explained your odd meal times.

A doctor, huh? He’s probably making serious money now, living the dream. He’s putting life back into people by saving them, yet he himself seems so devoid of life.

At some point along the way, I started to see beer glasses on your table. I wasn’t too sure when I first became aware of them, but as I continued to observe you, it became clear that alcohol had become a part of your order as well, and I felt the worry take hold. At first, it was only a flicker—an unease I brushed aside. But with each visit, each empty glass cleared away, that unease deepened into something heavier, something that settled in my chest and refused to move. I watched you drink not with indulgence, but with necessity. The way your fingers tightened around the glass, the way your gaze dulled as the night wore on—it frightened me. Each refill felt like a small surrender, and I counted them without meaning to, my breath growing shallower every time.

At the start, it was just one glass, but soon enough, I realised that the number was steadily increasing by the week. One glass turned into two, which then turned into three, and before I knew it, you were ordering ten glasses without a hint of hesitation, chugging them down swiftly. Then, fifteen. Each empty glass left behind felt heavier than the last. You’re a doctor! Shouldn’t you know this much alcohol isn’t healthy? From the kitchen, powerless and unseen, I felt the urge to call out to you, to stop you, to help you—but fear anchored me to where I stood. The fear that speaking now would only hurt you more. I told myself it wasn’t my place. That I had already made my choice—silence—and that I had no right to intrude on the life you had built without me.

So I watched. I watched as you left, swaying unsteadily on your feet, arms reaching out to whatever you could grab to maintain your balance. I wanted to reach out too, to support you, to let you know that you were not alone. I wanted to help you. I really did. But I didn’t know where to start, fearing that I would only make things worse.

Friday again. I heard the bell chime, announcing your arrival, and my chest tightened in a way I hadn’t expected. I glanced up to see your familiar face once more. You placed your order, sliding a glass of beer in front of you, before settling into your usual seat. My hands itched to reach for you, to do something, anything—but I stayed rooted to the kitchen, pretending to chop vegetables while my eyes refused to leave you.

I counted your glasses, again and again, each one feeling heavier than the last. Eighteen. Your hands trembled slightly, your movements sluggish, body clearly unable to keep up. You had ordered another, and my bartender hesitated, glancing at me with a question I couldn’t answer. Even he knew—it was already too much. And then, as your fingers tightened around the handle of your nineteenth glass, my fear shifted into something sharper, more urgent, clawing at my chest.

I couldn’t stay silent this time. My feet moved before my mind caught up, carrying me out of the kitchen and toward you, every step weighted with both dread and determination. My heart pounded as I neared the table, and I felt the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding spill out in a quiet gasp. The restaurant around me faded into a blur, the sounds of clinking dishes and laughter distant and hollow.

I was terrified. Terrified that I was too late, terrified that I’d make things worse, terrified of what you might say—or what you might not say. But beneath that fear was something stronger: a desperate need to reach you, to stop you from harming yourself, to make sure you weren’t alone tonight. Resolute, I reached out my hands.

Chapter Text

Futaro:
“Congratulations on graduating!”

That was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I had finished my medical degree at my dream school, the prestigious Tokyo University, and had graduated at the top of my class as valedictorian. On top of that, not only was I completely free of student loan debt, but I also had a hospital position lined up that paid far more than any entry-level job my classmates could hope to get, all thanks to the medical scholarship I had earned after coming in 1st in the national exams.

All my studying had finally paid off. All those hours I had spent with my head buried in textbooks, flipping through my trusty flashcards, and doing practice questions, it was all worth it. Or so I thought.

As I walked on stage to receive my certificate and degree, I was on top of the world. Raiha, who had attended the ceremony with me, told me she had never seen me smile that brightly before. Little did I know that that would be the last smile I would have in awhile.

After collecting my certificate, I had practically ran off stage to Yotsuba, who had also made time out of her busy schedule as an athlete to attend my graduation ceremony. It had been quite some time since I last saw her, and she seemed a little off, but with my head in the clouds, I couldn’t predict what was to come.

I still remember her words vividly.

“Congratulations on graduating, Futaro.”

At the time, I didn’t notice what was wrong with them. Only later did I realize how hollow they sounded—polite, restrained, as if she were reading from a script. There was no excitement, no warmth. None of the boundless enthusiasm that had always defined her, especially not for something like this.

But I was too cheerful to notice.

“Thanks, Yotsuba!” I replied, grinning from ear to ear, unable to contain the rush of euphoria flooding through me. It felt incredible—years of sacrifice finally paying off. Sleepless nights, skipped meals, endless pressure. I had made it. I was the best. For once, I wasn’t chasing a goal anymore—I was standing on it. Nothing could touch me. Nothing could go wrong.

She didn’t smile back the way I expected.

She looked at me for a long moment, eyes wavering.

“Listen, Futaro…” she said quietly. “I don’t think it’s working between us anymore.”

The words didn’t register at first.

“…What?”
She took a breath. “We barely talk. Weeks go by without us talking. Sometimes months.” Her fingers curled at her sides. “I know you’re busy. I know med school is hard. But if you really loved me…wouldn’t you have tried a little harder?”

I opened my mouth, instinctively reaching for an explanation. I was studying. I was exhausted. I was doing this for our future.
But none of it came out.
“I kept telling myself you were just tired,” she continued. “That once exams were over, once things settled down, you’d come back to me. But you never really did.” Her voice wavered. “It started to feel like I was the only one holding on.”

That wasn’t true. I cared. I just—

“And somewhere along the way,” she said softly, “my feelings started to fade.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

My chest tightened. “Yotsuba—”

“There’s something else,” she interrupted, eyes dropping to the ground. “I… I met someone.”

The world stilled.

“A teammate,” she added quickly. “It just happened.”

She didn’t look at me as she spoke.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” she said. “And I’m not saying this is your fault. I just… can’t keep pretending anymore.”

That was when it finally sank in.

She hadn’t come here to talk things out.

She had found someone else…

She had come here to end us.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I hope you’ll be happy.”

Before I could respond—before I could think—she turned and ran.

The crowd swallowed her whole. Her signature Green ribbon flashing briefly between passing bodies before disappearing entirely.

I tried to follow but my legs wouldn’t move.

The joy I’d been riding moments ago drained out of me all at once, leaving behind something cold and hollow. My thoughts slowed, then sharpened cruelly, every word replaying with brutal clarity.

If you really loved me, wouldn’t you have tried harder?

Then it all came crashing down. One moment I had been on cloud nine—untouchable, triumphant—and the next I was plunged into the depths of despair. The shift was too violent. Too sudden. My breathing hitched, vision blurring at the edges as panic set in. My legs trembled beneath me, no longer able to support my weight.

I heard my name being called. Then, I saw Raiha running toward me out of the corner of my eye, before my legs buckled and everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, the world was muted—gray and hollow. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital above me buzzed faintly, and a sterile scent clung to everything. My head throbbed, and every muscle felt like it had been drained of life. Blinking, I tried to sit up, only to be met with the heavy weight of exhaustion pressing me back down.

A nurse was there immediately, her expression professional but tinged with concern. “Take it easy, Mr. Uesugi,” she said gently. “You fainted from hyperventilation and extreme stress. Just rest for a moment.”

Stress. The word hit me like a punch. My chest felt tight, every heartbeat a reminder of the shock, the betrayal, the glee that had turned to devastation in seconds. Memories of her face—sad, distant, smiling as she tore everything apart—flashed in my mind, unbidden and relentless.

I wanted to scream, to move, to chase after her and demand answers, but my body refused. It was as if my own despair had left me paralyzed, tethered to this bed. All I could do was lie there, staring at the ceiling, replaying her words over and over: “I don’t think it’s working between us. We should break up.”

Hours—or maybe minutes; time had lost all meaning—passed. The nurse checked in again, offering water, but I couldn’t drink. Not yet. My stomach churned violently, and the room felt too small, too loud, too empty.

Eventually, the sound of footsteps approached my bed again, slower this time, gentler. I turned my head and saw Raiha and Isanari. They settled down by my bedside quietly, their silence holding more understanding than words could ever capture. Slowly, cautiously, she sat down beside me, her hand brushing mine.

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Just breathe.”

And so I did, because there was nothing else I could do. Breathe and survive.

Soon enough, they had to leave, Isanari for work, and Raiha for school, and I was left to my own thoughts again. My eyes combed the room, searching for a distraction from the pain in my heart, landing on my phone on the bedside table.

I picked it up and opened it, and immediately a flood of notifications filled my screen. Messages. From them. Nino, Miku, Ichika and Itsuki. I guess Yotsuba told them.

Somehow, their messages felt empty, simply a formality, nothing more than letters on a screen. I stared at the messages for what felt like hours, my thumb hovering over the screen, unable to reply. Every word felt hollow, every “hang in there” or “we’re here for you” just made the wound in my heart sting even more.

Eventually, I set the phone down, its glow fading into the dim hospital room. The silence pressed against me, heavy and suffocating, leaving me alone with the echo of her words. “We should break up.”

The sentence still repeated endlessly in my mind. I knew I should try to distract myself, maybe read, or at least close my eyes for a moment. But my thoughts had other plans. They chased me relentlessly, each memory of her happiness, her smile, her laugh, twisting into something bitter and unattainable.

I felt a weight settle over me, heavier than exhaustion, heavier than grief, heavier than anything I’d felt before. I clenched the sheets tightly beneath my hands, trying to anchor myself, but the anger, the hurt, and the disbelief all mingled into a single, gnawing ache that refused to be soothed.

Two days later, I was discharged. Feeling down in the dumps, I had trudged my way home. The doctor told me I had recovered, but the ache in my heart still lingered. I knew the doctor wasn’t wrong. I had studied medicine too. Physically, I was fine. Mentally, not so much. The pain my chest was not something that could be cured with medicine.

The hospital I was meant to work at was kind enough to give me one more day of rest before heading in for work. I was extremely grateful for their understanding, and decided to use the time to consolidate my feelings. To reset. A new chapter of my life was starting.

The moment I reached home, I washed myself up, and had prepared my work bag for my first day on the job. I shoved the memories of her, of the five of them, into the deepest corners of my mind.

Tomorrow, I would show up refreshed, and do my best. I would impress everyone, work my up the career ladder, become rich, and live a happy life.

And so I did.

When I arrived at the hospital, I immediately threw myself into my work, determined to prove myself. My days blurred together, filled with early mornings, late nights, and countless on-call shifts, but I welcomed the exhaustion—it lessened the dull ache in my heart.

In my first year alone, I had seen an astonishing number of patients, each one a new challenge: broken bones, sudden illnesses, emergencies that demanded split-second decisions. By the end of that year, I had treated and successfully cured a record-breaking number of cases, earning the respect—and, in some cases, the envy—of my colleagues.

Word of my skill spread quickly through the hospital. Nurses would subtly nudge me toward difficult cases, surgeons sought my opinion on complex procedures, and even the department heads began consulting me directly. My surgical abilities and precision, honed through years of meticulous study and an unyielding work ethic, blew everyone away.

By the time I completed my first year, the hospital administration had no choice but to acknowledge my contributions. I was promoted to senior doctor, making me the youngest person in the hospital’s history to hold that position. The very next year, I was made the head of the Accident and Emergency (A&E) department, which meant working odd hours, but also came with a large pay bump.

Two years later, my department received the budget for me to hire my own team of doctors to assist me, and I was moved to a bigger and more comfortable office.

Yet, happiness eluded me.

The feeling I had felt that day I graduated, before everything had fallen apart, refused to be replicated. I saved lives on a daily basis. My salary was steadily increasing year by year, I had pulled my family out of debt and still had plenty left over for myself.

When I was promoted to senior doctor, I had purchased a nice car for myself. Then a nice and large apartment when I was made head of the A&E department. But no matter what I did, I could never recreate the grin I had plastered on my face the day I graduated.

I could afford anything anyone might want, but the one thing I wanted, I struggled to get.

Another year flew by.

I sat in my office, eating lunch while watching the news on the new 4K OLED television my department had been gifted by an extremely grateful patient. I just so happened to tune in during the sports news section, a coincidence I would come to despise.

“Professional athlete Nakano Yotsuba announces engagement to teammate Haruto Sato”

I nearly fell out of my chair.

Almost instantaneously, the pain I had been trying so hard to keep at bay started to seep out of the cracks I had tried, and failed to fill. I immediately turned off the TV, but the words refused to leave. They echoed in my head, over and over, each repetition striking deeper than the last.

Engagement. Teammate. Yotsuba.

My hands trembled as I set the remote down on the desk, fingers stiff, uncooperative. I tried to breathe—slowly, deliberately—the way I instructed my patients to during panic attacks. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again. And again. It didn’t help.

The room felt too small, the walls closing in despite the wide windows and sterile white space. My chest tightened, as though something heavy had been placed directly atop my lungs. I leaned forward, elbows on my desk, head bowed, staring at nothing.

I had thought I was past this. I had convinced myself I was. I had buried her name under years of exhaustion, night shifts, and relentless routine. And yet, all it took was one headline to prove how fragile that lie had been.

So this was it. This was how I found out.

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it—short, hollow, almost foreign. Of course she had moved on. Of course she was happy. Engaged.

My pager buzzed on the desk. Once. Twice.

A reminder that my team needed me. That somewhere in this building, a life was unraveling, and I was expected to step in and fix it.

I straightened slowly, schooling my expression back into something neutral, something professional. Whatever was breaking inside me would have to wait. It always did.

I stood, slipping my white coat back on like armor.

By the time I left my office, my face was calm, my steps steady, my mind focused solely on the task ahead. To anyone watching, I was the same composed senior doctor I had always been—reliable, efficient, unshakable, capable of saving anyone but myself.

As the day drew to a close, I retreated back into my office and shut the door behind me. The silence was suffocating. With nothing left to distract me—no patients, no charts, no urgent calls—the anguish I had spent the entire day suppressing finally broke free.

It surged up all at once, violent and relentless, flooding my chest and leaving me breathless. I sank into my chair, fingers digging into the armrests as if I could physically hold myself together, but the misery swallowed me whole anyway.

I needed to know.

Ignorance had always been easier, but tonight, I couldn’t endure the uncertainty.

My phone felt heavier than it should have as I picked it up. One search led to another, names linking together with cruel efficiency. Articles. Photos. Interviews. Smiling faces frozen in time. It didn’t take long before I found the line that made everything click into place.

They started dating in university.

The words sat there, plain and unassuming, yet they hollowed me out more thoroughly than anything else I had read. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel shocked. No sharp spike of betrayal, no sudden rage. Just a quiet, resigned stillness.

Somewhere deep down, I think I had always known.

The truth didn’t feel like a revelation so much as a confirmation of something I had long suspected but refused to name.

The pain shifted then, losing its edge. It didn’t disappear—but it softened, settling into something heavier. Sorrow.

I let out a slow breath and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. I found myself replaying the past, not as it had felt at the time, but as it truly was.

The distance. Tokyo and Kyoto. The promises we made so easily, swearing that love alone would be enough to bridge the gap. I had believed it—no, I had wanted to believe it—because believing meant I didn’t have to change anything about myself.

At first, we talked every night. Her messages would light up my phone, full of energy and warmth, and I would respond between lectures and late-night study sessions. Then nights became weekends. Weekends became once a month.

Eventually, silence stretched so long it stopped feeling unusual. And when the phone did buzz, more often than not, it was her reaching out first.

I told myself I was busy. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself there would be time later.

There wasn’t.

I stared at my phone, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen, memories pressing in from all sides. How many times had I seen her name and thought, I’ll reply later? How many times had I chosen textbooks over her voice, my grades over connection?

It hadn’t taken effort to care—it only needed intention. And that, I realised far too late, was something I had failed to give.

I let out a bitter, humorless laugh.

In the end, I hadn’t been abandoned. I had simply been left behind by my own neglect.

She deserved someone who noticed her, who showed up without being asked, who made room for her the way she always tried to make room for me. If that person was her teammate—if that was where she found happiness—then who was I to resent it?

I told myself I was glad for her. I told myself she had found something better.

But knowing that didn’t make the ache in my chest fade. It didn’t quiet the regret that wrapped itself around my ribs and tightened with every breath. Acceptance didn’t bring peace—it only made the sorrow linger, steady and unyielding, a reminder of everything I had lost not through malice, but through indifference.

A singular tear escaped my eyes, followed by many more. They fell without restraint, blurring the world in front of me until the ceiling lights smeared into pale halos. I hadn’t cried like this in years. I had forgotten how exhausting it was—how grief demanded everything, leaving nothing behind.

My shoulders shook as I pressed a hand to my face, as if that could stop it, as if I could still control what spilled out of me.

I thought of all the moments I had missed. The nights she waited for a message that never came. The silence I had mistaken for stability. Each tear carried a different regret, each one heavier than the last, until my chest ached from the effort of breathing.

I curled forward in my chair, elbows on my knees, the office shrinking around me, the sterile calm mocking the chaos inside my head.

It hurt too much to keep replaying it. Her smile. Her patience. The way she had tried—again and again—while I had convinced myself that love could survive neglect. I had been so certain that discipline would carry me through anything.

I was wrong.

When the tears finally slowed, they left behind a hollow quiet. Not relief. Not peace. Just a numb stillness, as though something vital had drained out of me along with the grief.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and straightened, breathing shallowly, carefully. I couldn’t afford this—not again. Not now. I had a job to do. Lives depend on me. A future that demanded clarity, not weakness.

I looked at my reflection in the darkened screen of the television. The man staring back looked tired, older than he should have been—but composed. Functional.

That was enough. It would have to be. I couldn’t bear the torment any longer.

And so I decided to shut it all down.

If feeling meant hurting like this, then I simply wouldn’t feel anymore. I told myself emotions were unnecessary—a liability I could no longer afford. They distracted me, weakened me, and made me careless. I had survived before by relying on logic and discipline; I would do it again.

I would strip myself down to function alone, to a version of myself that worked, endured, and did not break.

I left the hospital late that night.

The corridors were quiet, lights dimmed, the building settling into its uneasy nighttime stillness. I shrugged on my coat and stepped outside, the cool air biting faintly at my skin, grounding me in a way the sterile halls never could.

As I walked past the entrance, something caught my eye.

A restaurant stood just next door.

Warm light spilled out from its windows, soft and golden, cutting through the darkness like an invitation. Through the glass, I could see movement—people laughing quietly, steam rising from plates, the gentle rhythm of a place alive with warmth.

It stood in sharp contrast to the hospital behind me, all white walls and muted beeps, and for a moment, my feet slowed without me quite realising why.

I remembered then—offhand comments from my colleagues during breaks.

“A new place opened next door.”

I hesitated. I wasn’t hungry. Or maybe I was—I honestly couldn’t tell anymore. Hunger, like so many other sensations, had become something vague and easily ignored.

Still, the glow tugged at me, persistent and gentle, and before I could overthink it, I pushed the door open.

A small bell chimed overhead.

The air inside was warm, carrying the scent of simmering broth and freshly cooked rice. It wrapped around me immediately, soothing in a way I hadn’t realised I needed.

I glanced at the menu and froze—not at the food, but at the prices. They were low. Almost absurdly so, especially for a place this clean, this inviting.

I ordered the cheapest set without thinking and took a seat near the corner.

When the food arrived, I ate out of habit at first, expecting little more than sustenance. But after the first bite, my chopsticks paused midair.

The flavours were gentle, balanced—comforting. Familiar.

I frowned slightly and took another bite.

It was good. Really good.

I finished the meal faster than I intended and left shortly after, telling myself it had simply been convenient. Cheap. Close. Practical. Nothing more.

Yet I found myself returning.

Once became twice. Twice became routine. After long shifts, after nights that stretched too far, I would drift back there almost without thinking. I ordered the same things, sat in the same seat.

The food always tasted the same—steady, comforting, impossibly consistent. Each time, that faint sense of familiarity lingered, but I couldn’t quite place what it was. But it still provided me with a strange sense of comfort.

Then one night, something changed.

It had been a particularly brutal shift. Despite every correct decision, every procedure performed flawlessly, a life had been lost. One of the few I failed to save. No one blamed me, but somehow that just made things worse.

By the time I left the hospital, my hands still felt unclean, no matter how many times I had washed them.

I entered the restaurant and sat down as usual, exhaustion weighing heavily on my shoulders.

That night, my gaze lingered on the drink menu longer than it should have.

I wasn’t looking for indulgence. I wasn’t looking for pleasure. I just wanted the noise in my head to quiet down. Just a little. Just enough to sleep without seeing monitors flatline when I closed my eyes.

“One beer,” I said when the server came.

The glass was cold in my hand when it arrived, condensation dampening my fingers. I took a sip, then another. The burn spread through my chest, dulling the sharp edges of the day, smoothing everything into something more manageable.

For the first time in a long while, the weight eased. I knew that the relief it provided was only temporary. In fact, more often than not, the consequences of drinking outweighed the short-lived happiness.

But it was happiness.

The feeling I had strived so hard to find, and came up empty handed. Not as strong as the feeling I had all those years ago, but it was a start.

And so, without realising it, a new habit began as I chased the high from all those years ago, in the hopes that it would replace the deep-rooted gloom. It became part of my routine of wake, work, eat, sleep—repeat. No expectations. No attachments. No room for disappointment. If I kept myself busy enough, efficient enough, there would be no space left for pain to seep in.

And for a while, it worked.

The heartache dulled, retreating into something distant and manageable. I moved through the days in the hospital on autopilot, responding when spoken to, smiling when required, performing the role expected of me as a doctor with mechanical precision. I stopped asking myself how I felt. I stopped wanting things. Hope, joy, even grief became foreign concepts, locked away behind a wall I had built brick by brick. It was easier this way. Safer. As long as I remained numb, nothing could hurt me again.

It started with one glass, but that number rose rapidly each week. With every swig I took, I would smile as the warmth filled me, but it was never quite the same as the one I had standing on stage that day.

Just a little more, I told myself. One more glass and my smile would be complete.

But it was never enough.

As a doctor, I knew the risks. At five glasses, the healthy limit, I knew I had to stop. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not when I was so close to my goal.

Ten glasses. Overdoing it.

Fifteen. Dangerous.

One night, I got to eighteen glasses. The world was spinning. The sounds around me, the chatter of customers, the clink of plates, were all muffled. I could feel my hands shaking. My vision was starting to blur.

But I was so close. I can’t stop now.

I raised my trembling hand. “One more beer please.”

Then I realised I lacked the strength to keep my arm raised, and it slumped down onto the table.

The nineteenth mug was set on my table. Or twentieth. I couldn’t quite remember. If anything, it looked like there were two mugs on the table, but I knew this was just an effect of alcohol.

I tightened my fingers around the handle and raised it up to my lips to drink. Closing my eyes, I prayed that it would finally, finally be enough.

But I was stopped by a pair of hands resting on my own.

Mildly irritated, I opened my eyes and as my vision focused, time seemed to stop. The noise of the restaurant faded into a dull hum.

At first, my mind refused to cooperate, unable to believe the information it was receiving from my eyes.

She was older. More confident. The shy girl who once hid behind headphones and long bangs was gone. Her hair hadn’t changed, and neither had her blue eyes. Her hands—stronger now, calloused slightly—still trembled where they rested on mine.

The way her lips pressed together when she was nervous. The way she hesitated, caught between saying something and retreating into silence.

“M… Miku?”

The name slipped out before I could stop it. It felt strange saying it aloud, like using a word from a language I no longer spoke.

She looked different—older, sharper around the eyes—but unmistakably her. The quiet one. The one who used to listen.

She inhaled sharply, as if she had been holding her breath for years. “You… you recognised me,” she said softly. Her voice was steadier than her hands, but not by much.

Of course I did.

How could I not?

She didn’t let go of my hand.

“That’s enough, Futarou-kun,” she said softly. Not a command. A plea.

For a moment, Futarou wondered if the alcohol had finally crossed some invisible line and was making him hallucinate.

“What are you doing here?”

The question came out flatter than he intended. Not angry. Just tired.

“I work here,” Miku said. “I’m the chef.”

All at once, the familiarity of the food, the warmth of the place, the unexplainable pull that kept bringing me back—it all snapped into place with brutal clarity.

My chest tightened as I looked around, finally seeing the restaurant for what it was. The care in every detail. The consistency. The quiet dedication.

It was her.

It had always been her.

I should have noticed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bartender, glancing between us. Miku straightened slightly.

“I’ve got this,” she said, more firmly now.

I glanced down at our hands, still intertwined, and only then realised how tightly I had been gripping the glass. She gently pried it from my fingers and set it aside, her touch careful, almost reverent, as though afraid I might break.

“You’ve had enough,” she said.

My chest tightened, breath shallow. I pushed my chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. The sound drew a few glances, but I didn’t care.

I stood up, swaying slightly, forcing my legs to obey.

“I’m leaving,” I muttered, more to myself than to her.

“Wait—Futarou,” she said, reaching out to me.

I flinched, turning to look at her, and whatever she saw made her hand fall back to her side. I grabbed my coat, fumbling with it as I slung it over my shoulder.

Every second I stayed felt dangerous, like the walls I had built to protect myself from hurting were already cracking under the weight of her presence.

“I’m sorry,” I added quietly, though I wasn’t sure what I was apologising for.

I didn’t wait for her response. I turned and walked toward the door, each step heavier than the last. The bell above the entrance chimed as I pushed it open, the sound sharp and final.

Outside, the night air hit me like a slap, cold and bracing. I stopped just beyond the doorway, breathing hard, hands clenched at my sides.

I didn’t dare look back as I made my way home.

Chapter Text

Miku:

I watched him go.

The bell above the door jingled, and just like that, he was gone—swallowed by the night. My chest felt tight, a strange mixture of relief, worry, and something I couldn’t name pressing against my ribs. My hands, still warm from holding his, tingled where they had touched him.

I leaned against the counter, staring down at the glass I had set aside. It seemed heavier than it should, as if it carried the weight of the emotions I had no right to show. He hadn’t yelled, hadn’t lashed out—but he had left.

The restaurant felt quieter now. The hum of the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the soft chatter of a few late diners—all of it felt muted and distant, like I was listening from underwater.

I bit my lip. He hadn’t spoken much, but when he looked at me, I could feel everything he hadn’t said—the exhaustion, the pain, the tight control he always placed over his emotions. He had been drowning in misery for years; I could see it in his eyes. And for a moment, I hated myself for the timing of it all. For showing up just as he was reaching the edge, for being a reminder of what he had tried to bury.

I had no right to reach out to him. Not after I had abandoned him all those years before. I had sent him a message when I heard the news from Yotsuba, hoping to offer some solace. My sisters had done the same. But he never responded, leaving us all on read. I sent a few more messages, hoping against hope that he would reply. Eventually, I gave up, and moved on. Or so I thought.

But the guilt never left me.

Back then, during university, I had known Yotsuba was seeing someone else. A teammate. Someone closer. Someone easier. I had told myself it wasn’t my place. That Futaro deserved to hear it from Yotsuba herself. I could’ve done so much more. I could have gone to see him in person instead of hiding behind my phone and relying on letters on a screen to convey my emotions, but the guilt and fear I felt wrapped themselves around me, restricting my movements.

Guilt from knowing about the affair and not telling you.

And the fear that you knew that I had known—and hadn’t told you.

Yet, even as my thoughts spiraled, I felt something else. A strange, persistent tug in my chest. He had recognized me. He had known, instantly, who I was. Even through the fog of alcohol, the haze of exhaustion, and the years that had passed—he had recognised me. That single fact echoed louder than anything else.

I set my hands firmly on the counter, closing my eyes for a second. I didn’t deserve that.

The warmth of his hand, the way his eyes had flickered with recognition—it shouldn’t have been mine to feel, not after all the years I had stayed silent, not after all the mistakes I had made.
I leaned back against the counter, letting out a slow breath. My chest felt tight, and the restaurant around me seemed impossibly large and empty despite the few lingering diners. I washed dishes, rearranged condiments, and wiped down tables with mechanical precision, but my mind remained stubbornly fixated on him.

For a brief, foolish moment, I allowed myself to hope.

Maybe… maybe he would come back. Maybe he’d come back every Friday, just like he had been returning these past weeks. I told myself he might still find solace here, that he might crave the comfort of the food and the quiet warmth I tried to pour into every dish. I imagined him sliding into the same corner seat, exhaustion etched into his features, and maybe—just maybe—allowing me a small window to talk, to apologize, to explain.

Friday came.

And he didn’t appear.

Another Friday passed. Still nothing.

My hope, fragile as it had been, shattered, then twisted into frustration, then into a dull, persistent ache. I watched the door constantly, half-expecting him to walk in at any moment, half-fearing that he would never come back. Each absence gnawed at me, a silent reminder of the distance he had built between us—the distance I had played a part in creating all those years ago.

I kept the restaurant open as usual, welcoming the steady stream of regulars, the hum of conversation, the laughter, the clinking of dishes—but nothing could fill the void his absence left. Every time the bell jingled and someone walked in, my heart leapt, only to sink moments later when it wasn’t him.

Sometimes, late at night when I was alone cleaning up or preparing ingredients for the next day, I would pause and close my eyes, letting myself imagine the scene again. I wondered if he remembered it at all. If he had thought of me since that night. Or if I was already nothing more than a fleeting shadow in his mind, replaced by the more pressing needs of his patients.

And still, I clung onto the hope that I knew was foolish. That he might return one Friday, that he might sit in the corner as if nothing had changed, and somehow, things could be different.

But with each week that passed, I felt the weight of reality pressing down harder.

He never came back.

The warmth of my restaurant—the atmosphere I had worked so hard to create to attract customers—felt colder with each passing day. I could cook. I could feed people. I could bring joy to anyone who walked through the door.

But not for him.

I paused in the kitchen, hands on the counter, staring at the floor. A quiet sorrow settled over me, heavier than any fatigue. Perhaps it had always been like this. Perhaps some things could never be fixed, no matter how much care, attention, or love I poured into them.

And yet… I kept the restaurant open, day after day, hoping against hope that somehow, he might return.

But he didn’t.

As the days slipped by, I felt myself wearing down.

At first, it was subtle—something I could easily turn a blind eye to. A lingering heaviness in my limbs when I woke up, the way my shoulders ached a little more each night after closing. I thought it was just fatigue. The restaurant had been busy, after all. New places always were. I pushed through it the way I always had, efficiently preparing dish after dish with love and care.

The Fridays piled up, one after another, each one ending the same way—with the last customer gone, chairs flipped, lights dimmed, and the fact that he had not shown up settling heavier in my chest than the week before. I told myself it was fine. This was how it should be. I didn’t deserve a second chance.

Somewhere along the way, eating became optional. Sleep turned shallow and restless. I caught myself staring blankly at simmering pots, losing track of time, the world occasionally tilting just a little too much when I stood up too fast. I ignored it all, the way I ignored everything that hurt.

“You’re overworking yourself,” one of the staff said gently one evening.

I smiled and nodded, like I always did. I will rest tomorrow.

I always said that.

Tomorrow never seemed to come.

The night it happened, the restaurant was quieter than usual. Rain tapped softly against the windows, blurring the lights outside into hazy streaks. I was wiping down the counter when a sudden wave of dizziness washed over me—stronger than before, sharp and undeniable. My fingers slipped, the cloth hitting the floor as my knees buckled.

I remember someone calling my name.

Then the sound of plates clattering. Arms catching me just before I hit the ground. The ceiling lights above me felt too bright, spinning slowly as my vision dimmed at the edges. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, the world was white and quiet, apart from the steady beep of a monitor. Sunlight spilled through the narrow gap between the curtains, soft and warm against my face, and I attempted to get up—only to slump back down again. My head felt heavy, my body weak in a way that went beyond simple exhaustion.

Moments later, I heard the door to my hospital room open. Footsteps approached, steady and familiar. And before I even turned my head—before I saw his face—I knew.

Chapter Text

Futaro:
I told myself I wouldn’t go back.

That night, after leaving the restaurant, I walked until my legs ached and the city thinned into quiet streets lit by indifferent streetlamps. The warmth I had felt inside that place clung to me like a mistake—unwanted, dangerous. I replayed the moment her hands stopped mine, the way my name almost surfaced on her lips, and I forced myself to bury it all under something familiar: resolve.
Don’t look back.

Don’t reopen old wounds.

I had learned that lesson already. I had paid for it.

In the days that followed, I threw myself into work with the same ruthless efficiency I’d relied on for years. Charts, rounds, surgeries—anything that demanded precision and left no room for thought. When my colleagues mentioned the restaurant next door, I tuned them out.

That restaurant, that street, that warmth I didn’t deserve — I buried it alongside everything else I refused to look at. Fridays became just another day again. Work, charts, procedures. Function. Endure.
The end of the week came and exhaustion settled into my bones. I found another restaurant, the food didn’t taste quite as good, but it would do. Food is meant to fill my stomach, nothing more. I was about to order a beer, when my hand hesitated.

I was halfway through raising my hand to call for the waiter when her voice cut through my thoughts, clear and unyielding despite how softly she had said it.

That’s enough.

Not angry. Not accusatory. Just firm — like she had drawn a line and dared me to cross it.

My hand dropped back down.

I told myself it meant nothing.

Still, I didn’t drink that night. And I wouldn’t drink anymore.

Then the call came.

Someone had collapsed. Female. Late twenties. Brought in from the restaurant next door.

For half a second, the world stalled.

I was already moving before the words fully registered, feet carrying me down the corridor as my mind tried—and failed—to keep up. I told myself it was a coincidence. It wasn’t her.
But the doors to the ER slid open, and there she was.

She was pale. Hair spread messily against the gurney pillow. The sight punched the air out of my lungs in a way no diagnosis ever had. I told myself I would treat her like any other patient.

My hands moved automatically—checking pulse, calling out instructions—but something inside me splintered, sharp and sudden.

This was my fault, a voice whispered.
No. That was irrational.
I crushed it down and focused.

Thankfully, she stabilized quickly. Dehydration. Exhaustion. Malnutrition layered beneath weeks of strain. The kind of slow damage people ignored until their bodies refused to cooperate anymore. I signed the orders, delegated follow-ups, and then—when there was nothing left to do—I found myself standing in the hallway outside her room.

Waiting for her to wake up.

I told myself I was being thorough. That I needed to check her vitals. That it was my responsibility. But I could’ve done so when she was asleep. Deep down I knew the truth: I wanted to see her, to talk to her. but didn’t know how else to go about it.

So I waited. Arms crossed. Back against the cool wall, continuously glancing into the room to check if she was awake. Medical staff and patients passed by, throwing dubious looks my way, but I didn’t care. The moment I saw her wake up, I knocked once and went in.

Sunlight spilled through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. She looked smaller in the hospital bed, swallowed by white sheets and sterile walls. Her eyes found mine almost immediately.
Silence stretched between us—thick, fragile.

The moment her eyes met mine, she stiffened—just slightly, but I noticed. I always noticed things like that.

“Futaro-kun?”

Hearing my name from her lips again sent a dull ache through my chest. I forced myself to breathe evenly. Doctor first. Always doctor first.

“You collapsed,” I said, eyes already drifting to the monitor beside her bed. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Stable.

My hands moved automatically, reaching for her wrist to check her pulse, as I had done with patients thousands of times. But with her, I hesitated, hand hovering just above her skin.

Do I have the right to touch her?

The thought startled me. He had done the same thing to hundreds of patients today alone. Yet this felt different.

Still, I pressed my fingers gently against her wrist.

Her pulse fluttered under his touch.

Too fast, he noted clinically—then hated himself for thinking like that.

“…Your pulse is normal,” I said at last, voice steady in the way only practice could make it. I checked the monitor again, avoiding her gaze. “Heart rate’s normal. No neurological deficits.”
She nodded, fingers curling into the blanket. “I see.”

Another pause.

I adjusted the IV. Listened to her lungs through my stethoscope. Checked her ears and mouth. Anything to keep my hands busy, my thoughts contained. When I finally looked at her properly, her expression made something in my chest ache.

“Miku,” I said, and stopped.

Her name felt heavier than it should have.

“You shouldn’t push yourself like that,” I said. It was all I could think of to say, but it came out a little sharper than I intended.

“I know,” she replied softly. “I just… didn’t notice.”

That was a lie. We both knew it.

The room felt too quiet, the silence punctuated only by the steady beating of the monitor next to her.

“I didn’t think you’d be the one treating me,” she added, almost apologetically.

“I wanted to,” I said before I could stop myself. I wouldn’t trust any other doctor to care for her.

Her breath caught.

Neither of us knew where to look after that.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Two words. Trembling. Heavy. “For before. For everything.”

I clenched my jaw. “You don’t get to decide when it’s convenient to apologize.”

“I know.” Her hands tightened in the sheets. “I wasn’t trying to— I just—”

“Stop,” I said, quieter now. Tired. “I don’t know how to have this conversation.”

She nodded in response. “Me neither.”

Another stretch of silence.

I stepped back, fingers clenching my clipboard a little too tightly. “You need rest. Fluids. Proper meals. We’ll monitor you overnight.” Then, I turned to leave. I couldn’t bear staying any longer. The silence between us was deafening. Why is this so hard? I’ve faced death. I’ve told families their loved ones didn’t make it. So why can’t I talk to her?

“Futaro-kun,” she said, my name careful in her mouth.

I paused at the door.

“…I’m glad to see you again,” she finished.

I didn’t turn around.

“Get some sleep,” I said instead.

As I left the room, the door closing softly behind me, I felt the urge to cry again, whether from the joy of knowing she was happy to see me, or from the despair seeing her reminded me of. The tears were held at bay by my mask of professionalism. I couldn’t just start bawling my eyes out. Not now. Not here. Her words stuck with me. She was happy to see me.

I’m happy to see you again too, Miku.

Chapter Text

Miku:

I heard a soft knock on the door, and Futaro walked in almost instantaneously after I woke up.

Too fast, my heart whispered.
The thought bloomed warm and reckless in my chest before I could stop it. He was waiting.
And just as quickly, I crushed it.

Don’t be stupid, Miku.
He’s a doctor. This is his job.
I had hoped that he would return to my restaurant, but I had been wrong. I was definitely wrong now.

“Futaro-kun?”

The name slipped out before I could weigh it, before I could decide whether I deserved to say it at all. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. He always reacted like that—tiny tells he thought no one noticed.

He spoke like a doctor. Calm. Professional. Safe. And yet, when he reached for my wrist, his hand hovered there, suspended in the air as if he were unsure.

When his fingers finally touched my skin, they were warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that hurt.

I watched his face as he worked, the practiced efficiency, the way he avoided my eyes.

“You shouldn’t push yourself like that.”

There it was. The sharp edge beneath the concern. The way he always scolded when he cared too much to soften his words. It almost made me smile.

Almost.

“I didn’t think you’d be the one treating me,” I admitted quietly.

I had expected him to ask for me to be reassigned to another doctor.

“I wanted to.”

The words landed between us, fragile and exposed.

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t breathe.

He wanted to.

Not had to. Not assigned to. But wanted to.

Somehow, I understood.

This—this careful professionalism, the waiting outside my room, the vitals checked with unnecessary thoroughness—this was his way of reaching out. He was trying.

He had given me an opening.

When he tried to leave, the panic rose in my throat before I could stop it. I called his name, just once, afraid that if I didn’t, I’d lose this chance too. I couldn’t let this opportunity slip away.

“I’m glad to see you again.”

It was all I could manage.

He didn’t turn around.
But he didn’t deny it either.

He left quickly, and I was left to my own thoughts again.

The days that followed were slow.

Pain faded. Strength returned in fragments. Nurses came and went. Meals appeared on trays I didn’t always finish. But every so often, I’d catch sight of him through the glass, checking charts, pausing longer than necessary.

He never stayed long. Never lingered.

But he always came to check on me.

I told myself not to hope.
I told myself not to read into it.

And yet—when the day of my discharge arrived, my heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.

I stopped by a vending machine on my way out. My finger came to a halt just millimetres from the button. What if I was wrong? I swallowed. If I was wrong, this would be embarrassing. Worse—it would be selfish.

No. He was trying. I had to try too. I pressed the button twice, and two cans came tumbling out of the machine.
I quickly grabbed the cans. Matcha soda. Cold against my palms.

I found him at the nurses’ station, mid-conversation, brows knit in concentration. When he noticed me, he froze—just slightly—before excusing himself.

“For you,” I said, holding one can out. I could feel my face heating up.

He stared at the can for what felt like eternity.

Then he took it.

“…Thanks.”

Our fingers brushed. This time, neither of us pulled away too quickly.

We stood there awkwardly, him playing with the ends of his hair, while I stared at the ground. I knew for a fact my face was as red as a tomato. I was a teenager in high school all over again.

“Take care of yourself,” he said finally.

“I will,” I replied. I meant it. “You too.”

He nodded.

As I made my way back to my apartment, I found myself walking with a slight spring in my step. All the exhaustion that had landed me in the hospital in the first place had vanished without a trace. In its place was something gentle and steady, a quiet warmth settling in my chest.

The very next day, I returned to work at my restaurant. Somehow, I felt lighter—like the hospital, the IVs, the endless worry, had all been a temporary storm, and now the calm had settled in.

When I stepped into the restaurant, the familiar hum of the kitchen and the soft clatter of dishes welcomed me back like an old friend. My employees welcomed me back, and I couldn’t help but grin as I greeted all of them.

The smell of simmering broth and fresh bread filled the restaurant as the customers started to stream in, and I took up my post behind the stoves and wall of pots and pans. As I cooked, my thoughts kept on drifting back to you. The abrupt conversations we shared in the hospital, meant to be nothing more than words between a doctor and his patient, somehow felt more than that. But as my mind continued to linger on you, I started to feel the memories of the events of yesterday be overshadowed by my guilt.

I remember the day so clearly. We were still living together then. We all had plans. Nino and Itsuki: out to meet friends. Ichika: shooting a commercial. And Yotsuba: out to meet a friend as well. I was supposed to go to the library to study for my culinary theory exams, where it would be quieter and I could focus better. The house was meant to be empty.

But since everyone had left and I didn’t quite feel like going out, I studied in my room instead. I regret making that decision. No one else was home, so it was quiet, allowing me to focus, and it saved me the travel time.

But then, midway through my study session, my focus was broken by the sound of the door opening. So early? I found myself thinking as I peeked out my room to see who had returned from their outing so quickly, and my stomach dropped.

It was Yotsuba, and she was with someone else. A boy. They were laughing softly, unaware of my presence. My chest tightened. The sight had made my throat burn, a mix of shock, disbelief, and an ache I hadn’t expected.

I froze, my body refusing to obey, my mind blank. For a heartbeat, I tried to convince myself I must be imagining it. Maybe I had misread the closeness between them—the way their hands brushed, the quiet intimacy of his whispers against her ear. But then, they pulled each other into a tight embrace, lips meeting in a kiss that left no room for doubt. Yotsuba was cheating on Futaro.

A surge of anger, disbelief, and helplessness hit me all at once. I wanted to speak up, to stop it, to somehow make her see that this wasn’t just some harmless fling—it would hurt him, deeply. But my body refused to move. My legs were rooted to the carpet, hands clutching the doorframe until my knuckles turned white, and my heart hammered as if trying to break free from my chest.

Eventually, I couldn’t bear it anymore. I quietly closed the door, retreating from the scene I wasn’t meant to witness. Collapsing into my chair, I tried to refocus on my books, tried to bury the image, to push it into a corner of my mind. But every word, every line on the page blurred into nothing. My thoughts kept finding their way back to him—Futaro.

I knew I shouldn’t stay silent. I needed to warn him. But how could I? How could I possibly break the news without shattering something I had no right to touch? I picked up my phone, thumb hovering over the screen, only to set it down again. I tried to think of every possible way to soften the blow, every phrase that might shield him from the pain, but the more I planned, the more my courage faltered. My determination and cowardice collided, and cowardice always won.

In the end, I told myself I was protecting him. That he deserved to hear it from Yotsuba herself. But deep down, I knew the truth. I wasn’t protecting him at all. I was protecting myself—from the responsibility, from the confrontation, from the inevitable guilt of being the one to deliver the news. But not telling him came with guilt too.

For days afterward, I tried again and again to work up the courage. I drafted messages, each one more carefully worded than the last, only to delete them before I could press send. Each time, the weight of what I knew, and the fear of changing everything, crushed my resolve. Eventually, exhaustion and self-deception won. I gave up. I tried to convince myself that Yotsuba would tell him eventually, and that I had done what I could. But I could never fool myself.

It was at that moment that a bitter, gnawing guilt had began to take root—one that would never quite leave me.

The sharp jingle of the restaurant bell pulled me back into the present, freeing me from the suffering inflicted by my own thoughts. The world snapped into focus—the hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, the warm glow of the overhead lights. It was Friday. Ten o’clock. Time had flown by.

I looked up, and there he was.

For a moment, my chest tightened so sharply I thought I might stop breathing. He stood there in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light from the street, his expression unreadable, posture still hunched slightly, albeit less than before…

My hands stilled on the counter, the cloth slipping from my fingers. I wasn’t sure if I was afraid, relieved, happy, or something else entirely. Part of me wanted to run to him, to throw myself into the familiarity of his presence, and another part whispered that this was too good to be true—that he would turn, disappointed or tired of me, and leave before I even had a chance to speak.

He settled into his usual seat and placed his order. He didn’t leave.

A glimmer of hope was born, threading its way through the guilt and fear. Maybe…this is his way of trying to reach out. Maybe he wants to reconnect, even if he doesn’t know how. I thought back to the events at the hospital and my heart began to race, a mix of anticipation and nervousness. I straightened my back, pressed my palms flat against the counter, and took a deep breath. If he was trying, so would I.

And so, I lifted my gaze and met his eyes. He nodded toward me, and a warm, fluttering feeling blossomed in my chest, overpowering the shame and regret that had been pressing down only moments before. I froze for a fraction of a second, letting the moment stretch, almost afraid it might vanish if I moved too quickly. It felt surreal—after all these weeks of imagining his return, wondering if I had read too much into that fleeting hospital encounter, and yet here he was. Not a memory. Not a figment of my hope. Real. Sitting in my restaurant.

I prepared his order, the usual bolognese pasta—the cheapest item on the menu—but I poured a little more care into it than usual, deliberately adding an extra serving of minced meat. Something about the way he looked that evening made me want to make sure he had enough, even if it was only through food.

When the steaming plate was ready, I placed it at the service window. A waiter approached to carry it to him, but I stopped her. If he’s giving me a chance, I’ll take it.

I picked up the plate and carried it to his table myself. My hands were surprisingly steady, despite the hammering in my chest. “Here you go,” I said softly, setting the plate down in front of him.

He looked up, meeting my eyes, and my heart skipped a beat. His face—so familiar, so achingly handsome—was impossibly close, impossibly real. I caught myself staring, cheeks burning, and quickly forced my gaze down to my feet.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and I felt my own words stumble out too quickly, too enthusiastically. “Y-Yep, no problem,” I replied, trying to sound casual while my stomach fluttered uncontrollably.

A tense silence settled over us, thick and awkward, my mind scrambling for something to say, while I felt a storm of heat rise to my cheeks. Then he surprised me.

“Care to join me?” he asked, motioning toward the empty seat across from him.

My heart did a flip and my cheeks reddened even more. “S-Sure!” I said, struggling to control the happiness bubbling up from somewhere deep inside, as I eased into the chair.

We started small, at first. The week, the weather, the usual polite chatter between server and customer. But gradually, cautiously, our conversation began to stretch further. We talked about the restaurant—about how it had been doing since it opened, about the long hours and the small victories that made it all feel worth it.

I told him about the new dishes I’d been experimenting with, the ones that hadn’t quite worked yet and the few I was quietly proud of. He listened the way he always had, focused and attentive, asking thoughtful questions that made me realise he was really trying to understand, not just making conversation.

In turn, he spoke about the hospital. Not in great detail at first—just fragments. Long shifts that bled into one another, difficult cases, the quiet satisfaction of seeing a patient stabilise after hours of uncertainty. He mentioned surgeries almost offhandedly, as if saving lives were just another item on his to-do list, but I could hear the weight beneath his words. The exhaustion. The responsibility. The way his world revolved around precision and control, leaving very little room for anything else.

At one point, I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with small plates—samples of the dishes I was testing for the next menu. He hesitated, then accepted them, tasting each carefully. His expression softened as he chewed, brows knitting slightly as if he were analysing the flavours with the same seriousness he brought to his work.

"It's good." He always said that. And yet, despite the simplicity of his words, they never failed to brighten my day—sending a small, unguarded flutter through my heart all the same.

It was strange how little the years we had spent apart seemed to matter—how easily our words found their rhythm, slipping into place as if no time had passed at all.

His voice was warm, familiar in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to remember fully. There was a softness, a care in his tone that made my chest ache with both relief and sorrow.

I caught myself smiling, a small, tentative curve of my lips. The guilt I had carried for so long—for my actions, or lack thereof—was still there, lingering at the edges, but it felt lighter now, softened somehow by these moments.

This—these chats, were a start. And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back—one Friday night at a time.