The rooftop door squealed. A metal shriek. Kenji jumped. His heart a rabbit in a trap.
She was there. Earlier. A different sweater. Gray this time. Still huge. Hair tucked behind one ear. Chewing. That mint smell hit him first. A clean slash through the cold diesel air.
He'd brought two. Like she said. They were crushed in his pocket. He pulled them out. Filter bent.
"You came," he said. Stupid.
"You brought them," she said. Nodded at the cigarettes. "Mint's better." Held out a candy. He took it. Routine now.
They lit up. Back against the rough concrete wall. The city was a wet, dark animal below them. Breathing lights.
Silence. But a different kind. The first night was shock. This was… waiting. The static between stations.
He cleared his throat. "So. The fighting."
"Still happening." She tapped ash. It fell like gray snow. "Your mom?"
"Still crying." He paused. "I made rice. Burnt the bottom. Ate it anyway."
She snorted. A real laugh this time. It changed her face. Made her eyes disappear into slits. "Idiot."
"Yeah."
The static crackled. He fumbled for a frequency. "You like music?"
She shrugged. "What kind?"
"Anything. Everything. My brother left his Discman. I stole it."
"Thief."
"You're smoking my stolen cigarette."
"Fair."
He pulled the Discman from his backpack. Bright yellow. Scratched. The headphones were huge. Foam peeling. He pressed play. No idea what was in there.
Guitar. A raspy voice. A British guy sounding bored and angry all at once.
She listened. Head tilted. "What is it?"
"Dunno."
"It's good."
He handed her one headphone. She took it. Their hands brushed. Again. A charge. A small shock.
They sat. One ear each. The music was a thread between them. A wire. The other ear filled with the wind, the distant traffic. A split world. Half in a angry English song. Half on a cold roof in Tokyo.
Her shoulder was close. Six inches away. It felt like a mile. It felt like nothing.
The song ended. A click. Silence on the disc. But they left the headphones on. Like taking them off would break something.
"My dad wants me to go to university," she said. To the air. "Law. Like him."
"You want that?"
"I want to not live in a house that smells like old arguments." She flicked her cigarette. Gone. "What do you want?"
Nothing. No one had asked. Not really. His mom said "be good." His dad said "be quiet."
"I want to drive," he said. The truth, raw and stupid, fell out. "Just get in a car. Drive. No destination. Just… go. Listen to music. Loud."
She looked at him. Really looked. In the half-dark. "Where?"
"Anywhere. Nowhere. Just away."
She nodded. Like she understood. Maybe she did. "Take me with you."
He stopped breathing. The static in his head went silent. Pure, clear signal.
"Okay," he said. A vow.
She pulled her knees up. Resting her chin. The headphone cord connected them. A fragile lifeline. "This is better," she said. Quiet.
"What is?"
"This. Than being down there."
Yeah. It was.
They didn't talk for a long time. Just sat in the shared silence of the dead disc. The shared cold. The mint and smoke mixing between them. A new atmosphere. Just theirs.
When she finally moved, it was to pull the sleeve of her sweater over her hand. A fist in gray fabric. She bumped it against his arm. Once. A nudge.
"Tomorrow?" she said.
"Yeah."
She stood. Handed back the headphone. The cord went slack. The connection severed.
"Bring the music," she said.
He watched her go. The door closed softer this time.
He sat there. In the sudden, total quiet. The ghost of the guitar chord in his ear. The ghost of her sleeve against his arm. A touch through layers of wool and doubt.
He put the headphones on alone. Pressed play. The same song. It was different now. It had her in it. Her mint, her gray sleeve, the way she said "thief."
He was stealing this. This feeling. This tiny, illegal piece of peace. Tucking it into the crushed cardboard box of his life.
He was a thief. And this was his first real haul.