The morning rush arrived earlier than usual.
The bakery was alive—footsteps, chatter, orders shouted over the counter, the scent of hot anpan and cheese mochi hanging like steam in the air. The little bell above the door barely had a chance to rest. Locals came in, and today, even a group of tourists came in with wide eyes and stumbling Japanese.
Natsumi radiated behind the counter, taking orders in a happy haze of sunshine. Kaito negotiated through the crowds with easy grace, serving up drinks, toasting buns, and throwing in the odd half-witticism in that deceptively charm-disabling tone of his.
And what of Haruka?
Haruka smiled, clutched tidy-kept by a grasp exactly as tight as her apron.
She worked the register, rang up change, greeted customers. She spoke in English when needed, and one of the guests complimented her fluency. Her lips would curve into gracious thanks. Her fingers did not tremble as she picked up the bagged melonpan.
Everything on the outside was fine.
But inside… her heart rang out.
She couldn't help but think about yesterday's picture. That girl—her arms embracing Kaito's waist, helmet at a slight angle, her laughter caught in mid-air as they zoomed off on his scooter.
Haruka had no clue who she was.
She didn't ask.
She didn't deserve to ask.
And yet, there she was, standing behind a counter with a knot in her chest that she couldn't place. It throbbed every time Kaito laughed in conversation, with every passing glance, with every time he walked past her and didn't see anything wrong.
He didn't know she skipped dinner last night.
Didn't know she slept barely at all.
Didn't know she almost tore up his sticky note—not because she hated it, but because it felt like it no longer belonged to her.
The bakery gradually emptied out by noon. Natsumi hummed softly while she washed the trays. Kaito leaned against the counter, sipping iced coffee, hair a little disheveled from the rush.
Haruka quietly slipped out and made her way to the backroom, citing she needed to restock the syrup stand. The door gently clicked shut after her.
She leaned against it, eyelashes fluttering closed.
What is this feeling?
It wasn't anger. Not really.
Not sadness, either.
Just. something that coiled within her, wrenching at her ribs.
She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the sticky note. The one he gave her a few days prior.
"Your name must be spoken softly."
Her fingers hovered over the words. She picked up a pen from the shelf and, slow, deliberate, drew a line right through the middle of the note.
It didn't tear. It didn't fold.
She didn't throw it away.
She just… marked it.
Marked how today felt.
There was a soft knock at the door. "Haruka?"
She stiffened.
Kaito's voice. Not pleased this time. Guarded.
"You okay?"
She cleared her throat. "Yeah. Just cleaning up."
A stop. Then: "Okay. If you need help, just let me know."
His footsteps faded.
She looked once more at the discarded sticky note. For a moment, her eyes blazed. But no tears came.
She folded the note up again, pushed it into her pocket once more, and took a deep breath.
Then she went back out front.
The bakery was peaceful now. Sun from the afternoon streamed through the windows. Kaito was restacking crates of bread in the corner.
He glanced at her, smiling. "Find the syrup?"
"Yup," she said, her voice even.
He didn't push for more.
And she didn't give more.
They worked in silence, their own rhythm off-beat—like a song sung in the wrong key.
And Haruka couldn't help but question whether he'd even realized.
If he ever would.