The sky was warm with the golden hue of late afternoon when Haruka stepped out of the bakery to dispose of the garbage.
She walked by the small alley at the side, the wind warm against her skin. The quiet after a long shift was almost relief—until the laughter sliced through the silence.
Familiar. Too familiar.
She halted.
Around the corner, near the side parking lot, was Kaito's scooter. And there he was, helmet tucked under one arm, talking to her again—the same girl from before.
The girl was laughing, her hand lightly slapping Kaito's shoulder, and Kaito was grinning. Grinning.
Then he bowed down, cradling the helmet as the girl climbed onto the back of his scooter.
She wrapped her arms around his waist as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
And Haruka just stood there, half-hidden behind a stack of empty crates, unseen and unmoving.
She couldn't hear the words, just the tone—light, casual, intimate in a manner Haruka didn't know how to interpret.
Kaito started the engine. The scooter hummed gently, then pulled away from the bakery. They passed by the alley, and for one moment, she was certain that he would see her.
He didn't.
She watched them ride away down the street, engulfed by the bend and the sun-scorched distance.
For a moment, Haruka didn't breathe.
Then, slowly, she turned inside.
She was silent when she returned. Natsumi was counting the register, the hum of the receipt printer covering the faint shake of Haruka's hands as she rinsed them in the sink.
"You did well today," Natsumi said kindly. "That English of yours saved the day with the foreigners."
Haruka weakly smiled. "It's nothing."
"Going home?"
She nodded. "Just a bit tired.".
Outside on the streets, everything was quiet again. Spring was leaning towards early summer, and the heat hugged her skin like a second layer.
She moved slower than she usually did. There was nobody to wait for, nobody to talk to—but her mind was loud.
Why didn't you ask?
The question echoed in her mind like a broken record.
But what would she have asked?
"Who was that?"
"Why are you so happy with her?"
"Do you laugh with her the way you used to laugh with me?"
No.
She had no right to ask any of that.
So instead, she didn't say anything.
That night, Haruka didn't journal. The sticky notes were untouched. She opened the drawer where she kept them, gazed at the small stack of folded encouragements from Kaito, and quietly closed it again.
No tears.
Just silence.
But the silence was different now, like it pressed against her ribs instead of wrapping around her in peace.
When she sat down to dinner, the rice was dry in her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, forced herself to eat half out of habit, half out of guilt.
Kaito didn't text her. He never did, and she never expected that he would. But tonight, she caught herself checking her phone anyway, like maybe—just maybe—he would.
He didn't.
The next morning at the bakery, she came earlier than usual. She put on her apron and tied it tightly, like armor.
Kaito arrived ten minutes later. He waved through the back door as always.
"Morning," he said, a little out of breath. "Sorry, I'm late."
Haruka nodded. "It's fine."
He blinked. "You okay?"
She didn't meet his eyes. "Just tired."
She went back to the tray of dough she was preparing. Her hands worked efficiently. Measured. Detached.
Kaito stayed a moment longer before fetching the rest of the ingredients. He didn't push.
The morning passed in a blur of routine—customers, orders, crumbs, laughter she didn't feel.
And whenever Kaito passed something to her, their fingers no longer brushed like they used to.
Whenever he smiled, she didn't smile back all the way.
Whenever he looked her way, she looked in another direction.
Something shifted between them.
Silent. Invisible.
But she sensed it in the manner in which her chest didn't open the same way when he entered the room.
And maybe he sensed it too.
Kaito didn't leave her a sticky note that day.