Over a week.
Seven days of unanswered questions. Seven days of unvoiced what-ifs.
Haruka looked over at the counter chair—the chair Kaito would occupy in the morning and lean on for his canned coffee, yattering on about bizzare delivery routes or rotten dealings on the highways. Now empty, still, like it waited too.
Maybe she was theatrical. Maybe this was just another disappearing act. People went away. Things occurred.
But that did not explain the vacuum that had corroded her chest. Or how she was already counting down days as if waiting for a storm to pass.
It was Natsumi who finally broke the silence.
"I asked Grandma if she had Kaito-kun's number," she said as she flipped a tray of melonpans onto the cooling rack. "She didn't."
Haruka blinked. "She… didn't?"
Natsumi shook her head. "He said he didn't like phones. Always said, 'If it's important, I'll show up.' Kind of old-fashioned, huh?"
Haruka forced a smile, but her stomach tightened.
So it wasn't just her.
No one could reach him.
Which meant he didn't want to be reached.
The idea jammed in her mind like a splinter. Kaito was always so affectionate, so forthcoming—no matter when he teased or evaded true answers, he never felt. aloof. But then he was a puzzle again.
And maybe that was the most frightening thing.
For what if he didn't come back?
And worse—what if he'd followed her?
The thought crept up on her gradually. The girl on the motorbike. The one who smiled so freely, who leaned on him as if they'd been friends a lifetime. The one Haruka never dared to ask about.
Maybe she should have asked.
And yet. what if she did, and the answer was what she feared?
She wiped the sweat from her hands on the apron, trying to control her breathing.
She didn't even know his last name. Kaito was it. No last name. No phone number. No Facebook or Instagram or Snapchat. Just bits of him lingering in momentary memories and pieces of paper taped around the room.
She couldn't call him. Couldn't demand answers. Couldn't even pretend to be upset.
All she had were choices, and they were consuming her.
She caught herself walking outside during her break, even when the sun was too strong or the wind too cold. Sometimes she walked by the bus stop. Sometimes she looked down the street where he usually rode in.
But he never showed up.
One afternoon, she walked to the bakery behind, where the spare storage racks were kept. There, among the bags of flour and packets of unused jam, was the box filled with the items that Kaito would carry in with him—extra sticky notes, a few pens that did not function, a pair of gloves he'd dropped last winter.
She reached inside and pulled out a small paper bag folded neatly at the top. When she opened it, she found two candies and a note inside:
"Try not to overwork yourself today. You'll burn the bread again if your head's in the clouds."
—K
She stared at the words for a long time.
Then, without thinking, she pressed the note against her chest and let out a shaky breath.
She missed him.
She missed him in the still moments, when the shop was deserted. She missed him when something funny happened and she subconsciously looked towards the door. She missed the way he made the world not feel so small.
Maybe that was what scared her.
That someone could just disappear and still manage to take big pieces of her with them.
She sat on the floor amongst bags of flour, tucking her knees up under her chin.
Maybe this is why she continued to push people away before they would ever even get to leave.
For when they stood up and walked away abruptly, it hurt like this.
And she didn't know what to do with it.
That evening, she lingered longer when her shift ended. The store was neat, the lights had been dimmed, but she didn't want to go up to the upstairs flat. She did not want to sit in her room with the silence.
Instead, she picked up a pen and a sticky note.
And for the first time in days, she wrote.
"You left without saying anything. That's unfair."
"I didn't need a perfect explanation. Just… something."
"I hope you're okay."
"I miss you."
She didn't sign it. She didn't even plan to keep it.
She folded it once, then again, then tucked it inside the paper bag she had taken earlier.
So she put the bag back on the shelf, hoping that somehow, someway, that would send the message across the miles.
It was foolish.
But it was all she could do.
Because at that moment, missing him was all she had.