As they sat in the quiet café, Aiko could see that Mika was at a crossroads—caught between the destructive patterns she'd developed and the possibility of healing. The conversation had revealed the deep pain driving her behavior, but understanding the cause was only the first step.
"Mika," Aiko said gently, "I want you to know that what you're going through—this desperate feeling, this need to anchor yourself to someone else—it's not unusual for someone who's experienced such a profound loss. You're not broken or crazy. You're human."
"Everyone else seems to think I've lost my mind," Mika said bitterly. "Ryo's friends keep telling him to get a restraining order, people online are calling me a psycho stalker..."
"People often react to behavior they don't understand with fear or judgment," Aiko replied. "But demonizing someone who's in pain doesn't help them heal—it just drives them deeper into isolation and desperation."
"So what am I supposed to do? How do I stop feeling like I'm drowning every day?"
Aiko leaned forward, her voice taking on the same gentle authority she used when helping struggling students at the academy. "First, you have to understand that this phase of your life—this overwhelming grief, this need to cling to anything that feels stable—it's temporary. It feels permanent because you're in the middle of it, but grief has its own timeline, and you won't always feel this lost."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I've seen people come back from seemingly impossible places. And because the version of yourself that loved Daiki so deeply, that inspired such loyalty and friendship—that person is still inside you. She's just buried under layers of pain right now."
Mika's eyes filled with fresh tears, but these seemed different—less desperate, more cleansing. "I miss who I used to be. Before all this happened, I actually liked myself. I had my own interests, my own dreams. Now I can barely remember what those were."
"They're still there," Aiko said with conviction. "Grief has a way of making us forget our own worth, our own completeness. But the goal isn't to go back to who you were before Daiki died—it's to discover who you can become while carrying his memory in a way that honors both of you."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Start small. What's one thing you used to enjoy that had nothing to do with anyone else? Something that was purely yours?"
Mika thought for a moment. "I used to paint. Watercolors, mostly. Landscapes and abstract pieces. I haven't touched a brush since..."
"Since Daiki died?"
"Yeah. It felt wrong to enjoy anything when he couldn't enjoy anything anymore."
Aiko nodded understandingly. "Survivor's guilt is real and painful. But consider this—would Daiki want your love for him to kill the parts of yourself that made you who you were? Would he want his death to mean the end of your creativity, your joy, your capacity for growth?"
"No," Mika said immediately. "He always encouraged my art. He said it was one of the things he loved most about me—how I could see beauty in ordinary things and capture it."
"Then maybe painting again isn't a betrayal of his memory. Maybe it's a way of keeping the best part of your friendship with him alive."
They sat in contemplative silence for several minutes. Aiko could see something shifting in Mika's expression—a spark of recognition, as if she was remembering pieces of herself she had forgotten existed.
"You know what the strangest part is?" Mika said finally. "I think I've been so afraid of being alone with my grief that I've forgotten how to be alone with myself. Before all this happened, I actually enjoyed my own company. I could spend hours painting or reading or just thinking, and it felt peaceful rather than empty."
"That capacity for enjoying solitude is still there," Aiko assured her. "Right now, being alone probably feels scary because you associate it with the absence of Daiki. But as you heal, you'll rediscover that being alone can mean being complete in yourself rather than just missing someone else."
"How do I get there?"
"Gradually. Be patient with yourself. Start with small acts of self-care—not because you're trying to attract someone or prove anything to anyone, but because you deserve kindness, especially from yourself." Aiko paused, choosing her words carefully. "And consider professional grief counseling. Not because there's anything wrong with you, but because healing from this kind of loss is too big to handle alone."
"Will you..." Mika hesitated. "I know I have no right to ask this after everything I've put you through, but would you mind if I checked in with you occasionally? Not about Ryo, not about any of that drama, but just... as someone who understands what it's like to rebuild yourself from difficult circumstances?"
The request surprised Aiko, but she found herself genuinely moved by Mika's vulnerability. "I'd be honored. But only if you promise to also get proper professional support."
"I promise."
As they prepared to leave the café, Mika seemed transformed from the desperate, angry woman who had entered an hour earlier. The change wasn't dramatic—she still carried the weight of her grief—but there was something calmer about her, more grounded.
"Aiko," she said as they reached the door, "I need you to know that I'm going to make this right with Ryo. Not because I'm hoping for anything romantic, but because he deserves an apology and an explanation that doesn't put him in the position of having to manage my emotional crisis."
"That sounds like the right approach."
"And I'm going to delete all the social media posts, stop showing up at his performances, stop all of it. Not because anyone's forcing me to, but because that behavior isn't who I want to be."
"What do you want to be?"
Mika smiled—the first genuine smile Aiko had seen from her. "I want to be someone who can carry Daiki's memory without letting it define my entire existence. Someone who can create beautiful things again. Someone who can eventually share happiness with others because I've learned to find it within myself first."
As they parted ways outside the café, Aiko felt a deep sense of satisfaction. She had chosen to see past Mika's destructive behavior to the pain underneath, and in doing so, had helped someone find a path back to healing. It was a reminder that transformation—whether in hair styling or in life—often required patience, understanding, and the willingness to work with what was already there rather than trying to impose something entirely foreign.
The approach had worked not because Aiko had judged or threatened or tried to control Mika's behavior, but because she had offered understanding and practical steps toward healing. Sometimes the most profound changes came not from force, but from compassion combined with clear guidance.
Walking back to campus, Aiko realized that this experience had taught her something valuable about her own capacity for helping others—not just with their appearance, but with finding their way back to themselves when life had knocked them off course.
It was exactly the kind of insight that would serve her well in Spain and throughout whatever career path lay ahead.