Miyamo's days usually started the same way.
Wake up late.
Miss the good part of the morning.
Move like his body was doing things five seconds before his brain caught up.
That day was no different.
He woke up around noon, lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan for a bit, then dragged himself up, washed his face, and ate whatever his mother had left covered on the table. The food was already cold by the time he touched it, but that didn't really matter. It never did.
By afternoon, he was back at the convenience store, standing behind the counter, scanning items, listening to the beep of the register like it was background music for his life.
Nothing special happened.
A man complained about prices.
A kid dropped a drink bottle and cried.
Someone asked where the restroom was even though the sign was right there.
Time crawled.
At 9:30 PM, the automatic door slid open again.
Miyamo didn't look up.
He was used to people coming in late—office workers, tired students, night-shift types grabbing dinner that didn't require effort.
The girl walked in quietly.
She picked up vegetables first. Then tofu. Then some spices. Things people bought when they actually planned to cook.
Miyamo scanned items for another customer, not paying attention.
But when it was her turn, he noticed she hadn't put the basket down yet.
She was staring at him.
Not rudely. Not intensely.
Just… thoughtfully. Like she was trying to remember something.
"Uh…" Miyamo said. "Do you want a bag?"
She blinked, like she'd been caught thinking too hard.
"Oh—yes. Sorry."
He scanned her items. She paid without trouble.
Then, unexpectedly, she placed a small bottled drink on the counter.
"This is for you," she said. "As a treat."
Miyamo paused. "For… me?"
She nodded. "You look tired."
He hesitated, then took it. "Ah. Thanks."
He didn't really know what else to say.
She smiled, picked up her bags, and left.
The automatic door closed behind her.
Miyamo stood there for a second longer than necessary, then put the drink aside and went back to work like nothing had happened.
When his shift ended, the store lights felt harsher than usual.
Outside, the air was colder than he expected.
Not freezing. Just enough to make him pull his jacket closer.
He waited at the bus stop, hands in his pockets, staring at the road. A bus arrived. People boarded. He followed, sitting near the window.
Across the aisle, the girl from the store sat down.
Miyamo didn't notice.
He was looking at his phone when it rang—his mother.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"On the bus," he said. "I'll be home soon."
"You're late today."
"Only a little."
She laughed softly. "Your father and I came back early. We'll eat together."
"Okay."
The call ended.
By the time he got off, the cold felt sharper.
He reached his apartment building around 11:00 PM, climbed the stairs, and stepped onto his floor.
That's when he heard a voice.
"Um—hello?"
He stopped.
It was the same voice from the convenience store.
"Could you help me for a moment?"
Miyamo turned.
She stood near the door next to his apartment, arms full of grocery bags. For a second, his brain struggled to process what he was seeing.
Her face—
It was blurred.
Not dark. Not shadowed. Just… unclear. Like looking through fogged glass.
"My hands are full," she continued. "Could you hold these for a minute?"
"I—" He blinked. Looked again.
Still blurred.
"…Sure."
He took the bags. They were warm from her hands.
"I'm Mitsuki Futaba," she said, fumbling with her keys. "I just moved in."
"Miyamo," he replied, a little stiff. "Kimtsu."
She smiled—he could tell from her voice more than her face.
The door opened. She quickly took the bags back, thanked him, and went inside.
Miyamo didn't wait.
He walked straight into his own apartment.
"You're ten minutes late," his mother said from the table.
"I was helping the girl next door," he replied, slipping off his shoes.
"Oh?" she teased. "Already talking to girls?"
"It wasn't like that."
His mother thought for a second. "A new neighbor… right. I don't think it's a family. Just that girl."
She smiled. "She's really pretty. Seems nice."
Miyamo didn't respond.
They ate dinner together. Talked about small things. Nothing important.
Later, in bed, he stared at the ceiling.
He thought about the drink.
The voice.
The blurred face.
It didn't scare him.
But it didn't feel normal either.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep came slowly.