Riku told her on a Tuesday.
Tuesdays were ordinary. Safe. They were the kind of day Mizuki relied on—predictable enough that nothing important was supposed to happen. She met him after work, like always, at the small café near the station. The one with uneven tables and music that was always just a little too loud.
He was already there when she arrived, stirring his drink absently, gaze unfocused. That should have been her first warning.
"Hey," she said, setting her bag down.
He looked up and smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey. Sorry, I've been thinking."
Her stomach tightened. "About?"
"Life," he said vaguely, then laughed. "You know. The usual."
They talked about nothing at first. Her day. His commute. A joke about the barista misspelling his name again. Mizuki let herself relax, the familiar rhythm pulling her in.
Then, halfway through her drink, he cleared his throat.
"So," he said. "There's something I wanted to tell you."
There it was.
She nodded, folding her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking. "Okay."
"There's this woman," he began, eyes fixed on the table. "From work. We've been talking more lately."
The café didn't change. The music didn't stop. But something in Mizuki did.
"Oh," she said. It came out soft, practiced. "That's nice."
"Yeah. I mean—" He frowned slightly, as if searching for the right words. "I don't know if it's anything. I just… I've been thinking about asking her out."
Thinking.
Almost.
Her chest felt tight, like she'd forgotten how to breathe properly.
"That's good," she said again, because encouragement was her role. "You should. If you like her."
"I think I do," he said. "Or I could. I don't know. That's why I wanted to talk to you."
Of course he did.
"What's she like?" Mizuki asked. The question cost her more than he would ever know.
Riku's face softened. "She's easy to talk to. Kind of awkward, actually. But in a good way. She listens."
Mizuki smiled, brittle. "Sounds like your type."
He laughed. "Is that my type?"
"Apparently."
He relaxed after that, leaning back in his chair. "I just don't want to mess it up. I'm bad at this stuff."
"You're not," she said automatically. "You just overthink."
"Maybe," he said. "But if it goes wrong, it could make work weird."
She nodded. She was very good at nodding.
"Well," she said, choosing each word carefully, "if you like her, you should try. You don't want to wonder what if."
The phrase cut deeper than anything else that night.
Riku studied her for a moment, then smiled, relieved. "I knew you'd say that. You always give the best advice."
Best friend.
They finished their drinks. He talked more easily now, tension gone, telling her small details—where the woman worked, how long they'd known each other, the joke she'd made that stuck with him. Mizuki absorbed every word like a bruise forming slowly under skin.
When they parted, he hugged her briefly, warm and familiar.
"Thanks," he said. "Really."
"Anytime," she replied.
She didn't remember the walk home.
The moment her apartment door closed behind her, the composure she'd stitched together all evening unraveled.
Mizuki sank onto the edge of her bed, fingers curling into the fabric of her coat. Her chest ached, sharp and hollow at once. She pressed a hand there, as if she could physically keep herself from breaking.
She had no right to feel this way.
He hadn't done anything wrong. He had been honest. He had trusted her. And she had smiled and supported him, because that was what a good friend did.
So why did it feel like something had been taken from her?
She imagined him laughing with the other woman, leaning in the same unconscious way. Saying her name softly when he was tired. Calling her late at night, voice heavy with thoughts he didn't know how to carry alone.
The images came uninvited, vivid and cruel.
Jealousy twisted in her chest, followed quickly by guilt. She wrapped her arms around herself, nails digging into her sleeves.
You don't get to want him, she told herself. You never claimed him.
Tears slipped down her face anyway.
She spent the night pacing between rooms, unable to sit still, unable to sleep. Every reassuring word she'd given him replayed in her head, each one proof of her own erasure.
By morning, her eyes were swollen, her heart bruised. She stood in front of the mirror, practiced a calm expression, and nodded at her reflection.
This was the cost of loving him quietly.
She could support him. She could survive this. She had to.
Because being his friend—even while he almost liked someone else—was still safer than losing him entirely.
And yet, as the day began, Mizuki understood something she had been avoiding for years:
Silence wasn't protecting her anymore.
It was slowly destroying her.