Mira didn't realize how quiet her thoughts had become until she was already halfway home.
The ramen had filled her stomach, sure. But it was something else that made her feel… steadier. Like some knot deep inside had finally loosened. Like Kobayashi's voice was still echoing behind her ribs.
"You can't control everything," he'd said, over a bowl of katsudon and tea that tasted vaguely medicinal. "Some things happen without your permission. Doesn't make them your fault."
Mira didn't say much after that. She just sat, chewing slowly, letting the warmth of food and words settle side by side.
And when Kobayashi handed her a small bar of chocolate wrapped in wax paper, muttering, "Take it. For the walk home," she almost cried.
Almost.
She tucked it into her pocket like something sacred.
The wind had picked up a little by the time she turned the last corner near the pedestrian bridge—and that's when she saw her.
Hikari, walking toward her from the opposite direction, her school bag slung to one side, strands of hair dancing in the breeze. Her expression lit up the moment she spotted Mira.
"Hey," Hikari called. "I thought I'd bump into you."
Mira blinked. "This early?"
"I finished early today," Hikari said, stopping beside her. "The bakery was packed. Elias has been baking since morning—he looked ready to pass out by the time I left."
Mira let out a breath of a laugh. "Of course he did."
They didn't rush to walk. It wasn't a reunion, just… a pause. A quiet recognition that both of them needed a moment.
Then Mira murmured, "Let's walk."
And they did.
The sidewalk stretched ahead of them, familiar yet new in this hour. Cars passed occasionally, and the sky shifted into deeper hues of navy. A cat darted across the alley behind them.
"Hikari," Mira said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking a lot. About… you. Us. This apartment, this weird life we're living."
She inhaled slowly.
"I keep wondering if I'm screwing this up," she said. "If I'm dragging you into something too unstable. You're still in school. You still have your whole future. And I—" her voice cracked, "—I can barely handle my own."
They stopped walking.
Mira didn't look at her.
"I'm scared I'm making things worse by trying too hard," she whispered. "Or not hard enough."
Silence.
Then—
"You're doing fine," Hikari said. "More than fine."
Mira looked up, eyes wide.
"I've been trying to find the right way to say thank you," Hikari continued, softly. "But maybe there isn't one. So I'll just say it like this: I see you. You try so hard. You don't need to apologize for not being perfect."
Mira's throat tightened.
"You still show up. You still remember the little things. You work even when no one's asking you to."
"You notice that?" Mira murmured.
"All of it," Hikari smiled. "So… maybe stop beating yourself up over things I never blamed you for."
The streetlamp above them flickered on.
Mira let out a shaky breath.
"Thanks," she whispered.
"You look like someone who needs chocolate," Hikari added.
Mira chuckled and patted her pocket. "Kobayashi beat you to it."
-
By the time they reached the apartment, the sky had dipped fully into night. The kind of dark that wrapped around buildings and blurred the city edges, save for the soft halos of street lamps and the occasional flicker from an upstairs window. Their building stood in the same quiet block it always had, unchanged—but tonight, something felt lighter.
Inside, the apartment welcomed them with its familiar scent of soy broth, fabric softener, and faint vanilla from Hikari's candle stash. It wasn't fancy. The walls still had scuffs, the fridge still made that weird hum, and their tiny table only seated two if they didn't mind bumping knees. But it was warm.
It was theirs.
Mira dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her shoes, and let herself sink slowly into the rhythm of the place.
Dinner was leftovers—nothing glamorous. Reheated rice in chipped bowls, miso soup stretched thin, and a few stubborn pieces of ebi tempura that Hikari had wrapped in paper towels before shoving into the fridge that morning.
"It's not much," Hikari said, setting the food out.
"It's enough," Mira replied, and meant it.
They ate without music, without TV—just the clink of chopsticks and the soft drone of wind outside. Mira listened while Hikari recapped her day at Moonlight Crumbs, waving her chopsticks like punctuation.
"Elias was in one of his moods," Hikari said between bites. "You know, that intense baking trance where he forgets humans need sleep?"
Mira raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"
"Worse. I think your visit short-circuited him. He got quiet after you left and just… spiraled into flour and sugar. When I clocked out, he had, like, six new recipe sketches next to his espresso. And one of them was named after you, I swear."
Mira blinked. "What?"
Hikari grinned. "It was scribbled in the corner. Something like 'Solace Citrus Crunch.' You broke him."
Mira blinked, then laughed through her nose, shaking her head."I'll write that on my resume."
After dinner, they moved in sync without needing to say much. Hikari rinsed the dishes, Mira dried them, stacking each bowl with practiced ease. The apartment was quiet again—but it was a different kind of quiet. It wasn't the fragile, aching kind Mira had grown used to in the past.
It was filled with movement. With breath. With life.
After they cleaned up, Mira shuffled to her futon, tied her hair back loosely, and settled under the blankets. The lights dimmed. The city pulsed gently through the window, distant and blurred.
Across the room, Hikari curled into her own blanket nest. Mira could hear her rustling, sighing, a pen clicking shut. She must've been writing something in her notebook again—Moonlight Crumbs logs, maybe. Or another letter to no one.
The quiet returned.
But Mira didn't shrink from it.
It didn't feel heavy anymore.
It didn't feel like a question mark waiting to drop.
It was soft. Spacious. Forgiving.
The thoughts still circled—about what tomorrow might ask of her, about all the things she hadn't figured out yet. About the blurry space between being okay and pretending to be okay. But tonight… they didn't scream.
Tonight, she had spoken.
And been heard.
And someone had stayed.
Mira let her eyes close, her breath evening out.
Across the room, Hikari shifted again, then whispered sleepily, "Good night."
Mira smiled.
"…Night."
And in that quiet moment, the warmth of not being alone—not in space, not in burden—Mira finally felt something settle in her chest.
Not clarity.
Not certainty.
Peace.