The bell on the bakery door jingled softly, but Haruka did not look up right away. She was preoccupied putting the cinnamon rolls in the display case, her actions gentle and methodical.
"Good morning!" Kaito's voice chimed in, cheerful as usual.
This time, though, it was followed by another voice—lighter, feminine, not quite strange and yet.
Haruka stiffened for a split second before straightening up.
There she was.
The scooter girl.
Up close, she appeared even more effortlessly cheerful, her hair loosely pulled back, her eyes lighting up at the scent of freshly baked bread. She wore a soft beige cardigan and jeans, casual but pulled together in a way that made Haruka somehow feel as if her own flour-dusted apron was suddenly too dowdy.
"This place smells amazing!" exclaimed the girl, spinning to Kaito, then looking around with blatant curiosity.
"Right?" Kaito chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Told you it was the best in town."
Haruka stepped back, providing them with room without being noticeable. Natsumi emerged from the kitchen then, drying her hands on a towel.
"Oh! Look who finally brought you here," she said with a smile when her eyes landed on the girl.
They hugged briefly, warm. Familiar.
"It's been so long!" the girl said. "I've been meaning to visit, I just… you know. Life."
Haruka's breath caught for no reason she could think of.
Not a stranger, then.
Someone Kaito knew well.
Someone Natsumi knew well.
Someone who belonged.
Kaito half-turned, his eyes meeting Haruka's for a brief moment. He smiled.
"Haruka, this is Ayaka."
Haruka had a polite smile. "Nice to meet you."
Ayaka smiled back, unruffled and sweet. "Nice to meet you, too! Kaito talks about this place a lot."
But not about me, Haruka thought before she could stop herself.
The rest of the morning passed in a strange sort of dissonance.
Ayaka lingered at the counter, chatting with Natsumi and helping Kaito with new stock. She moved with the familiarity that was the right of someone who knew where the sugar jars were, teasing Kaito when he tripped over a mop bucket, laughing like she was home in every corner of this shop.
Haruka worked in silence, her movements suddenly robotic. Her hands folded paper bags, wiped trays, and made change, but her mind was somewhere entirely else.
Whenever Ayaka laughed, it came across louder than it ought to've.
Whenever Kaito leaned in close to share something with her, Haruka's shoulders would stiffen.
And Kaito…
He didn't catch on.
He still gave Haruka warm pastries with the same gentleness. Still asked if she'd had breakfast. Still offered her a bottle of water when it got too hot near the oven.
As if nothing had changed.
As if she wasn't building a wall inside herself just to keep herself from falling apart.
When there was a lull, Haruka slipped into the back room. She leaned against the counter, her hand to her chest. The quiet in here was different—heavy, like the air before a storm.
She opened the drawer.
The sticky notes were still there, piled neatly.
She didn't take one.
Instead, she stared at them for a long time, then closed the drawer without touching anything.
She didn't know what hurt more—the confusion, or the way Kaito's kindness didn't falter, even when she wanted to push him away.
Does he not notice at all?
Or… does he just not care?
Later that afternoon, Kaito caught up to her near the back exit.
"You heading out?" he asked.
Haruka nodded. "Yeah. Got some errands."
He looked at her, a faint crease forming between his brows. "You've been kinda quiet lately."
"I'm just tired," she said, not exactly looking at him.
Kaito hesitated. "Is everything okay?"
She wished that she could say no.
She wished that she could say you smiled at her the way you used to smile at me, and why didn't you tell me she was someone special?
But instead, she just said, "Yeah. Everything's fine."
Kaito smiled a little bit. "Okay. But if it's not, you can tell me, you know?"
She nodded again, and this time she was able to return a smile.
"Thanks."
But the words were distant, like they weren't her own.
And maybe… neither was she.