Namalll3

Haruka ran away from home after one sentence destroyed all her self-esteem. Failing to get into her dream university, her father decided: she was no longer a child worthy of pride.

Without a direction, Haruka disappeared into a small town and lived as a hikikomori. Her days were spent in silence, only opening the door for food delivered via an app. Until a food delivery person kept coming, with sticky notes full of absurd comments and inexplicable little attentions.

Kaito never forced her. But he was always there. Sometimes, just to say, "If you like sweets, tomorrow I'll bring melon bread from my grandmother's shop."

When Haruka ran out of money and the last order couldn't be paid, Kaito didn't get angry. Instead, he offered a solution: work for a while at her grandmother's bakery—just until Haruka could pay off her debt.

But the outside world that had always felt scary slowly changed.

And Haruka began to wonder...

Why did someone she didn't know make her feel more seen than her own family?

And why... did Kaito's gaze seem like she had met him before—in a past she had long buried?

Things He Never Says

Haruka didn't notice at first. But by the time the fifth customer walked in with a DSLR draped over his shoulder and asked, in casual, slightly butchered English, "Yo, got any of that matcha-stuff bread?" it was clear—something had changed.

Natsumi was trying, big smile and simple sentences, but she was frazzled. The counter was clogged, the warm glow of the bakery invaded by a furious buzz. Kaito was working in the back, trying to keep up with the ovens and a group of renegade croissants.

Stepping back from the counter, she walked over to the group of stunned tourists standing around the glass case. "Hi," she said, her voice calmer than she'd expected. "This one's matcha anpan. It has sweet red bean paste inside. And this," she pointed to a pale roll dusted with powdered sugar, "is yuzu cream. Kind of sour and sweet."

The tourists lit up immediately. One of them pulled out their phone, taking pictures and muttering to the others in hushed tones.

"Wait, so like, what's that fluffy-looking one?" one of the men asked, pointing through the glass. His accent was thick, his words tumbling together fast.

Haruka blinked. The English was casual, fast, a bit sloppy, but close enough.

"Oh, that's melonpan. It's not melon-flavored, though. Just looks like one. Kinda crispy outside, soft inside."

And somewhere behind the kitchen curtain, Kaito peeked through the service window.

He was meant to be watching the second batch of melonpan from burning.

Because there was Haruka, standing upright, serene, almost glowing in the morning sun streaming through the bakery windows.

There was something of elegance in the manner she explained everything, the manner her voice eased when someone didn't understand, the manner her eyes didn't flicker away like they used to. She wasn't faking it. She wasn't performing. She was just. being herself.

He sat through as one tourist requested a recommendation from her, and she gave it with a smile. A real one.

Not the kind you say when someone's staring at you and you're meant to be polite.

Not the kind that says, "I'm fine" when you're not.

But the kind that makes you feel stunned when you've dropped your defenses.

She's not alone anymore, he thought.

And for the first time, he was frightened—afraid of how much he didn't want to stop noticing that. How much he hoped she wouldn't go.

Later on, after the frenzied rush had died down and the last of the tourists had left with their bags of neatly packaged bread, Haruka returned to wash up.

He just left a sticky note on the sink, neatly folded into a triangle as always.

"You weren't just helpful today. You were radiant."

Haruka did not open it right away.

She only looked at it, her own heart pounding too hard for anything so small.

But in her interior, something came to life—

Maybe she did not have to vanish to be guarded.

Maybe she was allowed to take up space, even in a universe with light everywhere.

Visitors and Vocabulary