Chapter 2: The Weight of Normal
Kazuki didn't realize how loud his life had become until the second day.
It was the small things at first—things he'd never noticed when he was alone. The way the bathroom mirror fogged more quickly. The faint scent of shampoo that wasn't his.
The extra toothbrush leaning awkwardly in a cup. The sound of two footsteps instead of one echoing down the hallway as they left for school.
Ayaka Sena had brought a kind of noise he wasn't used to. Not the kind that grated or overwhelmed, but the kind that settled into the air and refused to be ignored.
He watched her from the corner of his eye as they walked to school together again. It wasn't planned; she just walked at his pace without asking.
She wasn't overly talkative that morning, but the quiet between them was still a different kind of silence than he was used to. A companionable one.
"You don't eat breakfast, do you?" she asked suddenly.
Kazuki gave a small shake of his head.
"Figures," she said with a sigh. "You've got that 'I survive off caffeine and quiet despair' look."
He turned to look at her, startled.
She was smirking but not unkindly. "Just kidding. Kind of."
Kazuki said nothing. But her words lingered, much like her scent or her presence—soft, but unavoidable.
...
At school, things were both the same and different.
Kazuki remained a shadow. He sat in the back corner of the classroom, kept his head down, and avoided eye contact with both students and teachers. He answered only when called on and kept his answers short.
But now he had a secret. One none of his classmates knew.
The most popular girl in Class 2-B was living in his apartment.
Ayaka was not loud or obnoxious. But she had presence. People gravitated toward her—drawn by her easy confidence, her tall frame, her carefree attitude.
She laughed easily, greeted everyone, and could talk about anything from the latest dramas to politics without sounding bored.
Kazuki knew this because he watched.
He told himself it was curiosity. Self-defense, even. If she brought someone over, he needed to be ready. If she talked about him, he needed to know. But the truth was, he couldn't stop watching her.
She didn't mention him to anyone. Not once. Not even when her friends asked where she was living now.
"I moved out of my old place," she said once. "Long story. Just needed a change."
Kazuki wasn't sure what to make of that. She didn't owe him silence, and yet she gave it freely.
That afternoon, they returned to the apartment together, as they had the day before.
The walk was quiet, save for the hum of traffic and the occasional barking of a distant dog. Ayaka carried a bag of groceries she'd bought on the way home.
Inside, she kicked off her shoes and stretched. "You know, it's kinda cozy here. You've got that minimalistic hermit vibe going."
Kazuki sat at his desk, eyes scanning the pages of a dog-eared paperback. "You didn't have to buy anything."
"And you didn't have anything in your fridge besides expired tofu and three bottles of soy sauce," she replied, placing items into the tiny fridge with a practiced efficiency. "Call it a public service."
He glanced at her. "How did you know the tofu was expired?"
She looked at him over her shoulder, grinning. "You ever seen tofu that color before? That was not natural."
For a moment, a small smile threatened the corner of Kazuki's lips.
He buried it behind his book.
The next week passed in a blur of unfamiliar normalcy. Kazuki found his routines shifting without realizing it.
He started waking up a little earlier—not because Ayaka asked, but because her presence demanded a kind of structure.
She always greeted him with a tired smile and a sarcastic remark. She commandeered a corner of the room for her stuff, but kept it neat. She made dinner twice, always enough for two.
He never asked her to.
She never asked him if it was okay.
It just happened.
And Kazuki, to his own horror, found that he didn't mind.
One night, they sat across from each other on the floor, eating instant curry while the sound of rain tapped gently against the windows. The laptop was on in the background, but neither of them was watching.
"You know," Ayaka said between bites, "most people would kill for a place like this. No parents. No siblings. No rules. Just... freedom."
Kazuki looked up. "It doesn't feel like freedom."
She paused, then nodded. "Yeah. I guess it wouldn't. Not if you didn't choose it."
He stared at her, caught off guard by the depth in her voice.
"What about you?" he asked. "Did you choose this?"
Ayaka laughed softly, a sound that was more bitter than amused. "Not really. I just didn't want to stay where I was."
There was a long silence after that. The kind filled not with awkwardness, but with shared understanding. A kind of quiet sympathy.
They didn't need to say more.
Friday came, and with it, a subtle shift in the air.
Kazuki returned from work late, shoulders heavy from the weight of a double shift. He expected silence, maybe Ayaka already asleep.
Instead, he opened the door to find her sitting on the floor, legs crossed, surrounded by papers and textbooks.
"Homework," she announced without looking up.
He blinked. "It's Friday night."
"And I have three assignments due Monday. Might as well get them out of the way."
He dropped his bag by the door and moved to his desk.
Ayaka looked up. "Want to help me with math?"
Kazuki raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged. "I'm tall, not smart."
He stared at her for a moment, then sighed. "Let me see."
They spent the next hour leaning over worksheets, Ayaka groaning dramatically with every equation and Kazuki quietly correcting her logic. It was the most they'd spoken in a single stretch since she arrived.
And when they finally finished, Ayaka leaned back against the wall, exhausted.
"You're kind of amazing at this," she said, glancing at him. "You ever think about being a tutor?"
"No."
"Why not?"
He paused. "I don't like people."
Ayaka laughed. Not mockingly—genuinely.
"You're honest. I like that."
He didn't reply. But inside, something shifted.
He liked her laugh.
That night, he couldn't sleep. Not because of noise or discomfort, but because of awareness.
The awareness that someone else was breathing beside him. That someone else had brought life into a space that had only known isolation.
He rolled over and stared at the ceiling.
It was strange. But not unbearable.
And somehow, that frightened him more than being alone ever had.
Saturday morning brought with it a surprise: Ayaka was gone.
Her bag and uniform were still in place, but she was nowhere to be found.
Kazuki felt a pang of something unfamiliar. Worry?
He checked his phone—no messages. Not that they'd exchanged numbers.
He tried reading, but his eyes skimmed without comprehension. He tried cleaning, but everything already was. Time crawled.
Finally, around noon, the door opened.
Ayaka stepped in, hair windblown, carrying a plastic bag of fresh bread and a small carton of juice.
"Morning!" she chirped. "Or... afternoon, I guess. Sorry, I went for a walk. The weather was too nice to waste."
Kazuki stared. "You didn't leave a note."
She blinked, surprised. Then her expression softened.
"Sorry. Didn't think you'd worry."
He looked away. "I didn't."
But they both knew that was a lie.
She walked over, handed him a pastry. "Peace offering."
He took it silently.
They sat by the window, eating in quiet.
Outside, the world continued like normal.
Inside, something fragile and new was beginning to form.
And neither of them quite knew what to do with it.
Kazuki found himself watching her more now.
Not out of suspicion, but something else. Something softer. She hummed when she cooked, swayed when she brushed her teeth, and laughed at jokes on TV even when they weren't funny. She took up space without invading it. Brought warmth without demanding it.
She never asked about his past.
He never asked about hers.
But they existed in the same silence, and that was enough.
For now.
...
One night, as they sat in their usual spots, Ayaka turned to him suddenly.
"You know what's funny? I think I was lonelier when I was surrounded by people."
Kazuki looked at her.
"You think that's weird?"
He shook his head. "No. I think I understand."
She smiled faintly.
And in that moment, something wordless passed between them—like a bridge being built one plank at a time.
Something fragile. Something real.
Something like the beginning of everything.