Chapter 11: The Distance Between Footsteps
The morning after their quiet moment on the balcony felt different—less like another page in a routine and more like a new chapter gently unfolding.
The warmth between them hadn't been spoken aloud, yet it lingered like the scent of tea leaves left in a cup: subtle, unmistakable.
Kazuki woke up first, a soft light spilling through the curtains. The world was still. No clatter of pots, no teasing voice from the kitchen. Just birds outside and the rustle of blankets as he sat up slowly.
Ayaka was still curled up on the futon, her breathing steady. One arm tucked under her cheek, the other wrapped around the edge of the blanket.
For a while, he simply watched her, guilt mingling with something gentler. He hadn't answered her whisper the night before.
Don't fall in love with me.
How could he promise that? How could he deny what had already taken root?
He rose quietly and tiptoed to the kitchen. The least he could do was make breakfast.
...
The smell of grilled fish and miso roused Ayaka sometime after eight. She yawned, her hair a storm of disarray.
"You're cooking? Who are you and what have you done with my roommate?"
"I do this occasionally," Kazuki replied, sliding a bowl of rice toward her.
She blinked, surprised. "This actually looks edible."
"Don't sound so shocked."
She grinned. "Okay, okay. You've earned a gold star."
They ate in comfortable silence, until Ayaka set her chopsticks down and looked at him carefully.
"Did I say something weird last night?"
"You say weird things all the time."
"Don't dodge. I mean about... not falling in love with me."
He paused, gaze steady. "You were serious?"
"I meant it. But maybe not for the reason you think."
"Then tell me the reason."
She hesitated, then said quietly, "Because I don't want to hurt you. And I'm not sure I can protect the things I care about."
Kazuki studied her face, the slight tremble in her fingers. "You already protect more than you know. You protected me. From silence. From loneliness."
Ayaka looked down at her bowl. "And if I mess it up? If I disappear?"
He reached across the table, gently touching her hand. "Then I'll remember the days you were here. And how they made everything better."
She looked up, eyes shimmering.
"You're really good at saying the exact thing I need to hear."
"I'm just telling the truth."
They didn't say anything more, but the silence between them now was charged with warmth, not fear. It was a step. Not toward confession, but toward understanding.
Later that afternoon, Ayaka had her first real interview with the art school she'd been eyeing. It wasn't the final exam—not yet—but a preliminary discussion. A chance to introduce herself, to make an impression.
Kazuki offered to walk her to the train station. She agreed, but with a caveat:
"Only if you wear your good coat."
"The itchy one?"
"You look like a depressed scarecrow in your hoodie."
"Harsh."
"You'll survive. Probably."
They walked side by side down the hill from the apartment. The sky was overcast but dry, the air crisp.
Ayaka carried a sketchbook under her arm, filled with her favorite pieces—cityscapes, people on trains, quiet scenes from the apartment.
"Are you nervous?" Kazuki asked.
"Terrified," she admitted. "But also kind of excited. I've never tried to reach for something like this before."
"You're going to do great."
"You don't know that."
"No," he said softly. "But I believe it."
She smiled, the kind that didn't try to hide its fear or hope.
When they reached the station, Ayaka paused at the gate. "You should go. It'll be weird if I cry in front of you later."
"You can cry in front of me whenever you want."
"Don't tempt me."
She stepped through the gate, then turned back. "Hey, Kazuki."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for walking with me."
He lifted a hand in farewell. She disappeared into the crowd, a splash of life in a sea of grey.
...
The apartment felt emptier without her. Kazuki cleaned the kitchen, sorted laundry, rearranged the books on his shelves, and still the hours dragged.
He was starting to understand how much space she filled—not just physically, but in his thoughts, in his quiet, in the cadence of his days.
By the time the sun began to set, he was pacing near the window.
Then the door opened.
"I'm ho—!" Ayaka stumbled in, breathless, cheeks red. "Wait, did you pace a hole in the floor?"
He stepped forward. "How did it go?"
She threw her arms in the air. "I didn't faint! I didn't cry! And they actually liked my stuff! They said my use of light and space was 'intuitive and emotionally grounded.'"
Kazuki smiled. "That's amazing."
"I mean, it's not a guarantee, but... they said I have a strong shot."
Without thinking, he hugged her.
She froze, just for a moment, before hugging him back.
"I wanted to tell you first," she said softly. "Because you're the reason I even tried."
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her.
"You did this on your own, Ayaka. I just reminded you you could."
Their eyes met, and the room felt impossibly still.
But neither of them moved away.
That night, after dinner, Ayaka brought out a folded paper from her bag.
"This was one of the notes I wrote on the train. It's silly. But I want you to have it."
Kazuki unfolded it carefully. Inside was a sketch of the two of them under the kotatsu, with exaggerated expressions—her laughing, him pretending to pout. Above it, in small handwriting:
"My safe place has legs, sarcasm, and surprisingly good miso soup."
He stared at it for a long time, unable to speak.
Ayaka, watching him, whispered, "You can put it in your drawer of important things."
He nodded slowly. "I think it's already there."
She smiled, eyes soft. "Good."
They watched a movie afterward, a quiet drama set in a coastal town. Halfway through, Ayaka fell asleep, her head on his shoulder. Kazuki didn't move. The credits rolled. The lights dimmed.
And still, he didn't move.
Not because he couldn't. Because he didn't want to.
Somewhere deep inside, he realized he wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore. He wasn't counting the days until she left.
He was simply—finally—living the days as they came.
And loving each one a little more.