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

It was nearing closing time when Kaito reappeared, not rushing or with delivery bags, but with a subdued smile and a small thermos tucked under his arm.

"Got a minute?" he asked, glancing into the bakery where Haruka was wiping down the counter.

She smiled. The shop was empty now, the light of the sign outside casting long shadows on the wooden floor. It had been a long day, but not an unpleasant one.

Kaito set the thermos down, twisted the lid, and filled two tiny ceramic mugs with hot cocoa.

"Family recipe," he said, handing her one. "Well, technically Natsumi's. She used to make it for me when I had a bad day."

Haruka picked it up carefully, her fingers curving around the heat. She took a little sip. It was smooth and rich, not too sweet, and spiced with something that she couldn't quite put a name to.

They sat by the window, drinking in silence as the town outside grew silent in the stillness of the night.

Haruka spoke at last—nervously, but determined.

"When I was in middle school," she began, her eyes fixed on the spin in her cup, "I skipped lunch at times. Not because I wasn't fed. I just. Didn't eat. It gave me a feeling of control about something."

"My mom thought I was just finicky. She started packing more food, hoping one day I'd get hungry. I never did. And when I did eventually pass out at school, she lectured me and told me I was embarrassing her."

The air became heavy now, but not so heavy that Haruka would ever regret speaking.

"I didn't know what to say to you then. I just wanted all the turning to stop. To be enough, even if that meant disappearing a little bit."

Kaito's hold on his mug tightened, but his tone was soft when he spoke, "You're still here."

The cocoa had cooled a bit, but warmth still lingered between them, slow and slightly sweet.

Kaito pulled his jacket pocket out and drew out another sticky note. He didn't hand it to her right away this time, though, but rather just placed it on the counter next to her mug.

"Sometimes, healing feels like drinking warm cocoa – slow, and a little bit sweet."

Haruka smiled, tiny but genuine. It enveloped them like a comforting blanket, this silence. This tiny moment when the past did not have to be narrated in all its complicated glory, and the future did not need to be rushed.

As she looked back at Kaito, the guard was no longer there. They were simply exhausted, true, and perhaps—just possibly—a little lighter.

She folded the note up and tucked it into her pocket.

And as the night drew in outside, they sat side by side, their hot, empty mugs clutched in their hands, two people gently beginning to forget how to be alone.

A Cup of Cocoa and Two Unspoken Things