The days were one on top of the other like watercolor seeping into paper. Morning after morning, Haruka would wake up to the patter of soft rain or shining sun flowing in through windows. She continued to help in the bakery—kneading dough, laying out pastries, wiping tables—but there was a small difference inside of her.
Kaito's absence had grown from a piercing ache to something lighter, more indistinct, but heavier too. Like having a rock in her pocket, one she automatically touched even when she didn't consciously think about it.
Every now and again, she would catch herself glancing towards the door whenever the little bell sounded. Each time a delivery man came in, or a tourist walked in, her heart leaped half a beat—only to catch up again when it wasn't him.
And slowly, Haruka began to accept something she had been afraid to even consider before:
Maybe Kaito wasn't going to come back.
The thought settled on her like slow fog. It did not choke her as it would have once before. It only clung, cold and heavy, reminding her that not all promises were ever going to be kept. That sometimes even good people departed, not because they wanted to, but because life pulled them in a different direction.
However, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself to move on, her heart would not quite release.
Late afternoons were the worst.
In the lull between lunchtime and the afternoon rush, when the bakery slowed and Natsumi busied herself with paperwork, Haruka would find herself wandering into the pantry. It was a small, cramped room tucked behind the kitchen—lined with rows of stacked flour bags, baking supplies, and displays of seasonal decorations.
It was also where Kaito would secretly enter to place his goofy sticky notes on her forehead.
She rested against the doorframe one afternoon, arms crossed lazily, gazing into the little room.
And for one fleeting moment—
—she saw him.
Kaito, his relaxed, cozy grin like that, slipping into the kitchen like he always used to. He wore his same black hoodie like on chilly morning mornings, sleeves pushed up carelessly to elbows. A sticky note stuck in his hand from a neon little pad.
No voice spoken, he placed it on her forehead, gently pressing the sticky side.
"Don't wrinkle, you'll have wrinkles."
It was the kind of mocking message he would have left.
Haruka's breath stilled on a laugh. But when she blinked, he was gone. There was only the pantry shelves and the scent of cinnamon in the air.
Her hand rose involuntarily to her forehead, but of course—there was nothing there.
She closed her eyes, the familiar tension beginning to build in her chest.
It was just her imagination.
An obstinacy to continue, a tenuous hope that clung on even as the days relentlessly rolled on without him.
On her wall, the one she had plastered her memories on, the light yellow sticky note Kaito had left there still was the focus—the simple words she clung to in the slower times. Around it, Haruka began posting up her own sticky notes, little things she didn't want to forget or feelings she couldn't put into words.
"Breathe first. Then think."
"It's okay to miss someone and still move forward."
"You are stronger than you think."
There were times, when loneliness was just too much, she would sit on the floor in front of the wall, cross-legged, and pretend Kaito could see it too. That he would chuckle at some of her worse notes. That he would leave one more sticky note behind.
During the nights, the halucinations returned all the more intensely.
Sometimes, she would dream of being back in the bakery, flour dusting the air like snow, and Kaito materializing out of nowhere behind the counter with a tray in his hands, on which there was a note: "Special delivery for Miss Haruka!"
Sometimes, she'd dream of hearing his voice—low, teasing—calling her name from far away.
"Haruka!"
She would jump out of bed, racing heart, only to be met with an empty, quiet room.
Each time, she would put a hand on her chest and whisper to herself, it's okay. It's okay to miss someone. It's okay to hope. It's okay to feel.
The secret was that she stayed in the now.
And in the now, Haruka was still there.
Breathing. Living.
Healing.
Even if it was slow. Even if some days were heavier than others.
One evening, after cleaning the bakery, Haruka sat on the back step with a mug of hot tea. The sun was lowering behind the clouds, tinged with lavender and gold. She drank in silence, listening to the hum of cicadas in the distance.
Natsumi came to join her after a while, lying down with a soft sigh.
"You've gotten stronger," Natsumi told Haruka, pressing a small envelope of cookies they'd baked previously into her hands. "You know that, don't you?"
Haruka managed a weak smile. "Some days I don't feel it."
"Strength doesn't always look or feel like strength," Natsumi told her, tapping the cookie against Haruka's. "Some days it just feels like getting through the day. And that's enough."
Haruka gazed out at the horizon. The world just kept rolling, even without Kaito to look at it.
And so would she.
Deep within, though, she still managed to cling to hope.
Some day, possibly, he'd come through the bakery door one more time.
Some day he'd slap an adhesive note across her forehead and laugh as though no time whatsoever had gone by.
But even if he did not—
Even if their lives diverged on different roads—
She would cling to the heat that he gave off.
The quiet voice that cheered for her when she'd lost touch with memory.
She would carry it on.
No matter how much the days varied.
No matter how much the seasons moved.
Haruka closed her eyes and exhaled gently into the calming evening air:
"Thanks, Kaito."
Wherever he was.