Caught by the Wind

POV: Author

It started with a photo.

A blurry image of their bread box—tied up nicely in brown string, a cute hand-written label that read "soft morning, soft bread", and two mismatched hands holding the box from either side. One of those hands was Haruka's. The other was Kaito's.

They had not even realized the photo was being taken. Someone had uploaded it with the caption:

"Cutest couple-run bakery pop-up in Tokyo! Follow their pre-order here before it sells out ????????"

Within a few hours, it was reposted by a local food blog. Then a lifestyle page. Then a viral tweet.

In their small apartment, Haruka scrolled through the comments with a shocked expression.

"Look," she whispered, handing Kaito the phone.

Kaito blinked at the screen. "Huh. That's… us?"

She nodded. "Apparently we're cute now."

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, they're not wrong."

It should've been funny. It should've just been flattering.

But something about the virality tugged uncomfortably at the back of Haruka's mind—like the wind had changed direction, and she could feel it brushing too close to old doors she wasn't ready to open.

Meanwhile, in a quiet neighborhood miles away, the photo ended up where it was never meant to be.

On a tablet beside a teacup. In Haruka's mother's hands.

Her face drained of color.

She zoomed in on the photo again. The girl's face was half-turned, the light was soft, but a mother knows.

"It's Haruka," she whispered.

From the room next door, her husband's voice rang out sharply. "What did you say?"

She turned the tablet over without a word.

He took it, looked, then clenched his teeth. "She's with a man."

His voice was thunder in the silence.

That night, the Misaki house was warm with cold words and colder silences.

"She ran off like a child," her father growled. "Now she's playing house with some stranger?"

"She's not a child," her mother said softly, though her hands trembled. "She looked… well. Healthier than she was."

"She disrespected everything we did for her." 

"She needed something we never gave." 

The argument grew. Years of unspoken words churned like dust from old furniture.

In their apartment, Haruka sensed the shift before the message arrived. 

Her mother sent it—one sentence, no greeting: 

Do you think we wouldn't find out?

Her fingers hovered over the screen. She didn't reply.

Kaito found her sitting on the futon later, still staring at her phone. The bakery orders were boxed, dinner was half eaten, and Haruka hadn't said much throughout the evening.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked, sitting beside her.

She handed him the phone.

He read the message and exhaled slowly. "I guess the photo got a little too popular."

"They know I'm not alone."

Kaito was quiet for a moment. "Do you regret it?"

"No," she said right away, and then, more gently, "But I'm scared."

They couldn't sleep that night, the city humming around them.

"I dreamed of disappearing," Haruka whispered, "like… not leaving any mark behind. Not because I wanted to die. I just wanted to not exist in the way they made me live anymore."

Kaito didn't have any words. He just reached out and laced their fingers together.

"And now that they know," she whispered, "I'm afraid they'll try to write me again."

"They can try," he said, his voice steady. "But this time, you control your own pen."

The following morning, another message appeared.

This time from her father:

Come home and we'll talk. Without him.

Haruka stared at the words for a long while.

She thought of her old bedroom with its locked windows. Of family dinners eaten in silence. Of trophies that meant nothing. Of praise that felt conditional.

She put the phone down without replying.

But the storm didn't stay digital.

Her mother called the bakery. The owner passed the phone to Haruka, unsure what to do.

"Haruka," her mother's voice cracked through the line, "please. Just let us know you're safe."

"I am," Haruka whispered.

"And this boy—Kaito—is he kind to you?"

"He's the first person who ever saw me… without trying to change me."

There was a silence. Then her mother whispered, "I wish I had been braver, Haruka. I really do."

The line died before they could both cry.

When she returned to the apartment, Kaito was sorting flour bags, his sleeves dusted white.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

She nodded slowly. "No. But also yes."

He smiled, that same quiet, unwavering smile. "We'll weather it."

That evening, she sat at the windowsill, watching the wind tug at laundry lines outside.

"We never had a plan, did we?" she asked.

Kaito looked up from the table where he was sketching a new bread label.

"Nope," he said. "Just a lot of flour and feelings."

Haruka laughed for the first time all day.

The wind picked up, rattling the window slightly.

They didn't close it.

Let it come, Haruka thought. The wind. The past. The sound.

Let it come.

This time, she would fight against it.