Mira left the café a little later than usual.
Not late enough to be called overtime, but late enough that the sidewalks had thinned and the buzz of the day had quieted into something softer, hazier. Her apron was folded neatly in her bag, still warm from the late shift. Her feet ached, her shoulders sagged slightly, and she had that particular kind of tired that settled into her bones — not from physical exhaustion, but from holding herself together for too long.
The city lights blinked softly as she walked. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly, bicycles clinked as they passed, and the air held that early evening chill that always showed up just before spring truly arrived.
Ten to fifteen minutes.
That was all it took to get home.
But somehow, tonight, every step felt longer.
She passed the usual corners — the mailbox that always leaned to the left, the cracked vending machine with the grape soda that was always out of stock, the tiny convenience store that sold overpriced jelly cups. She could probably walk it with her eyes closed by now.
Still, she didn't rush.
Because going home meant something else now.
It wasn't the empty studio apartment she used to crash in and ignore for days on end.
It had a futon in the corner with someone else's blanket.
A pair of slippers by the door that weren't hers.
A toothbrush beside the sink.
It wasn't just her space anymore.
-
The apartment was warm when Mira got home.
Not from sunlight—it was already past dusk, and the sky was the kind of dark blue that promised rain by morning—but from motion. From life. Hikari's shoes were in their usual crooked spot by the door. Something was bubbling faintly on the stove, and the sound of faint humming floated from the bathroom, off-key and unbothered.
Mira slipped out of her shoes, set her bag down, and paused.
She didn't hate it.
That was the strange part.
She didn't hate the cluttered sink or the tangled pile of blankets in the corner of the futon. She didn't hate the sound of another human being singing through the walls. She didn't even hate the way their small space always smelled like either soy sauce or instant coffee depending on the time of day.
She just… didn't know what to do with it.
With the fullness of it.
The companionship.
The constant sense that someone was near.
It was something she used to crave. The kind of closeness that could only exist in a shared space, where small routines folded into each other—someone remembering to buy milk, someone folding your hoodie and putting it on the chair instead of the floor.
But Mira hadn't built this space for two.
She'd made it survivable.
Not livable.
So now that it was livable… why did she feel so unmoored?
"Hikari," she called softly, leaning toward the hallway.
"Welcome back! I'm almost done with it." Hikari shouted back from behind the door. "Don't touch the pot!"
Mira smirked faintly. "I wasn't going to."
"You always say that, and then you do!"
"I touched it once—"
"You burnt the miso!"
Mira rolled her eyes and turned toward the low table instead. A folded laundry pile sat waiting. She picked up a shirt—hers, inside out, still warm from the dryer—and started folding without thinking.
Her body moved on muscle memory.
But her thoughts wandered.
She should be happy. She should be grateful. She was grateful.
But lately, she felt like she was always buffering. Always a few seconds behind herself, like her life was a live stream with a shaky connection.
The café was fine.
The apartment was full.
Her bank account was still gasping, but not flatlining.
And yet…
She missed something.
She didn't know what.
Something unnamable and quiet. Like a silence you only noticed after it was gone.
The bathroom door creaked open. Hikari stepped out, face flushed from steam, wearing Mira's old sweatshirt again.
"You folded my laundry?"
"Don't get used to it," Mira replied, tossing a pair of socks at her. "I was bored."
"Wow. You're slipping," Hikari grinned, catching them midair.
Mira rolled her eyes.
Dinner was quiet—but comfortable.
Hikari chattered about some new girl in her class who had an entire pencil case filled with novelty erasers shaped like desserts. Mira listened, poked at her tofu, nodded in the right places. She didn't have much to add. Didn't feel the need to.
Afterward, Hikari took over the dishes. Mira sat by the window, scrolling through her phone, not reading anything.
A message popped up from her café manager.
Can you stay late tomorrow? One of the new kids called in sick again.
Mira sighed.
She typed back:Sure. Just let me know how long.
She didn't hit send.
Instead, she stared at the blinking cursor.
Why was she always saying yes?
Why was her first instinct always to keep things afloat, even when she felt like she was sinking?
She deleted the message.
Typed again.
Sorry, can't tomorrow. Need the evening off.
Then hit send.
She didn't know what she'd do with the evening.
But for once, she wanted to claim space just for herself.
Across the room, Hikari was drying a plate, humming again.
Mira watched her for a moment.
She was okay.
She was doing okay.
And that should have been enough.
But Mira still felt like she was waiting for something. Or running from something. Or both.
She didn't know what her future looked like.
Didn't know if it included this café job. Didn't know if she'd ever go back to school. Didn't know if her mother would call again—or if she even wanted her to.
But she knew one thing.
The apartment wasn't empty anymore.
And neither was she.
Even if her heart still echoed sometimes.
Even if she still woke up wondering if she had chosen the right path—or just the one that hurt less.
She stood, stretched, and walked into the kitchen.
"You're making tea, right?" she said.
Hikari looked over her shoulder. "Was about to. You want some?"
Mira nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "I think I do."