They didn’t say much as they walked, but the silence no longer felt like something to escape.
It had become a place—a temporary shelter between words.
Aoi led them to a narrow park tucked behind a pharmacy and an apartment complex. The entrance was marked by a rusted iron gate that groaned faintly as she pushed it open. The small space held a single swing set, a sandbox long since overtaken by leaves, and one wooden bench beneath a crooked streetlight that flickered like it hadn’t made up its mind about being broken.
“Here?” Haruki asked, raising a brow as Aoi sat on the bench.
She gave a half-shrug, half-smirk. “It’s quiet. Nobody bugs you here. I used to come here a lot.”
Haruki took the spot beside her, sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. The bench creaked under their combined weight.
A breeze passed through the empty park, rattling dry branches overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, twice, and then went quiet.
“You okay?” she asked.
It was the fifth time she’d asked him that question since the morning, each version softer, quieter, more hesitant.
Haruki didn’t answer right away. He stared down at his shoes, scuffed from walking.
“Would it make a difference if I said no?” he asked.
Aoi leaned back against the bench, gazing up at the cloudy night sky. “Not really. But I still want to hear it.”
Haruki allowed himself a small exhale.
“No,” he said. “I’m not okay.”
She nodded, as if she’d known, and didn’t press for more.
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It just was.
Haruki let his shoulders slump a little. The tension in his back had been building all day, coiled like a spring since breakfast, since the envelope, since the apartment. Now, with nothing left to anticipate and no one left to impress, it began to slowly unwind.
“You know the worst part?” he said, voice low. “It wasn’t that he gave me the assignment. It was how normal it all felt.”
Aoi looked over at him.
He kept his eyes on the ground. “The envelope. The woman. The information. The expectation. Like I was just another piece being slotted into place. No anger. No ceremony. Just—‘Here’s what you’ll do.’”
A pause.
“And the terrifying thing is—I understood it. All of it.”
He clenched his fists once, then relaxed them again.
“It didn’t feel foreign. It felt… familiar.”
Aoi didn’t speak, but she reached over and gently, wordlessly, placed her hand on his.
Haruki froze.
She didn’t take his hand. Didn’t lace her fingers with his or pull him closer. She just let it rest there, warm and grounded, like an anchor.
It was the first time she’d touched him without sarcasm or teasing.
It was the first time he didn’t pull away.
They sat like that for a while, the quiet wrapping around them like a heavy blanket.
Finally, Aoi spoke.
“I used to think I knew what kind of person you were,” she said. “Smart. Quiet. Always sitting by the window like you were waiting for something to happen to you.”
Haruki huffed softly. “Nice to know I was a walking cliché.”
“You were worse than a cliché,” she said dryly. “You were a mystery with nothing written on the box.”
He smiled faintly. “What changed?”
Aoi didn’t smile. “You let me see inside the box.”
Haruki turned to her. She was still looking forward, her gaze distant now, not meeting his.
“That comes with a price,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “I already paid it.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Why?”
Aoi leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm.
“Because,” she said softly, “when I’m around you, it feels like I’m choosing something real. Not perfect. Not safe. But real.”
Her voice dropped. “And because I know what it’s like to be handed expectations instead of choices.”
Haruki blinked. “You never talk about your family.”
“Exactly.”
She gave him a quick glance, then looked away again. Her hand was still resting lightly on his.
He didn’t press her. He didn’t need to. The understanding was enough.
They sat for a while longer. The streetlight flickered overhead again, casting shadows that danced along the sidewalk.
Eventually, Haruki asked, “Do you ever wish you could start over? Like, really start over. Not just leave the city or change your name. But erase everything.”
Aoi was quiet for a long time before answering.
“No,” she said. “Because even if I erased everything, I’d still be me. I’d still make the same mistakes. Feel the same things. I’d just be a little more alone.”
Haruki looked down at their hands.
He wasn’t used to softness. He wasn’t used to things that didn’t come with conditions or costs.
“I’m scared I’ll lose myself,” he admitted.
Aoi didn’t flinch. “You will. That’s part of growing up.”
“Comforting,” he muttered.
“But,” she said, “you’ll find pieces of yourself in other people. In moments like this. In places that don’t belong to your father.”
She turned toward him now, her eyes steady.
“You’re more than the family name, Haruki. But if you start believing that name is you... you won’t survive it.”
Haruki exhaled through his nose. “You say that like you’ve already figured everything out.”
“Hell no,” she said, her voice warm with dry amusement. “I’m just better at pretending I have.”
He finally smiled again.
The kind that hurt just a little.
The kind that meant thank you without saying it.
---
The bench creaked again as Haruki leaned back, head tilted toward the sky.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” Aoi replied.
“I mean, I will eventually. But just... not now.”
“Okay.”
They sat until the wind picked up again, colder now, biting at their sleeves.
Aoi shivered.
Without thinking, Haruki shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.
She gave him a look—half surprise, half protest—but didn’t remove it.
Instead, she said, “You’re going to catch a cold.”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah. That’d be nice. Something normal for once.”
Aoi shook her head, but her eyes softened. “You’re an idiot.”
“I get that a lot.”
---
Later, as the streetlights dimmed further and the hour grew heavier, they finally stood.
They didn’t talk about what came next. Not the assignment. Not his father. Not Riku.
For one night—just one—they let themselves be here.
Together.
In a quiet park, beneath a tired streetlight, with hands that didn’t quite hold but didn’t let go.