The sun hadn't even risen completely when Kaito zipped up his hoodie, slung his delivery bag across one shoulder, and crept out of the apartment. Haruka slept on, curled up on the futon, her journal lying beside her like a silent guard.
He didn't want to wake her.
She had smiled yesterday—not a forced smile, but the one that illuminated the air around her like spring sunlight through frozen panes. Weeks of grey had Kaito ready to do anything to protect that radiance.
The chill hit his cheeks as he rode his bike along the tight town streets. Even the wind was gentle this morning, almost playful. The scent of the bakery, familiar to him, greeted him when he pulled up—yeast, sugar, and memories. He filled three deliveries, double-checked the address stickers, and headed out on his route.
His second drop-off was on the edge of town, past the corner with the always-too-short yellow light. He came to a stop at the red, humming to himself. The light changed, and he began pedaling.
He never saw the car.
Just a glimpse of black metal.
A screech.
A stomach-churning hit.
Then just horizon.
The world turned sideways.
Pain erupted in his ankle before he had even hit the ground.
Haruka was folding laundry when her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
She did not quite pick it up. Then something cold slid into her stomach, and she picked it up.
"Haruka-san Misaki?"
"Yes?"
"This is Minato General Hospital. Kaito Sakamoto listed you as his emergency contact—there was an accident this morning."
She couldn't remember hanging up. Only the smear of the grabbing of her coat, the pushing on of shoes, the sprinting. Her breath caught halfway down the stairs. The cold morning smacked her in the face, but she didn't feel it. All she could hear was the sound of the woman's voice, cold and hollow, saying "non-life-threatening injuries"—and that just didn't comfort her.
The hospital stank of antiseptic and steamed rice. Too clean. Too human.
"3-B," the nurse answered. "Left wing."
Haruka's legs shook with every step. She hated hospitals. She hated the memory of sterile walls and sleepless nights of her childhood—her mother's illness, her father's silence. She had not passed one of their doors since.
But when she opened the door to 3-B, all that was forgotten.
Kaito lay on the thin bed, left leg up and wrapped in thick gauze, his face scratched and bruised—but alive. His eyes opened wide when he spotted her.
"Haruka?"
She caught herself on the side of the bed. "What happened?! Are you—are you—"
"I had a fight with a car," he said with a wry grin. "The car won."
Haruka almost collapsed in tears.
"You idiot," she whispered, voice shaking. "That's not funny."
"Maybe a little funny."
"No, it's not."
They stared at each other, and Kaito's smile faded into something softer.
"It could've been worse," he said. "The bike's totaled. My ankle's sprained bad. But… I'll heal."
Haruka gently reached for his hand. It was warm, calloused, familiar. Real.
"I was so scared," she said, barely above a whisper. "I thought—"
"I'm still here," he said, squeezing her fingers.
She did not release.
The doctor came a minute afterward with X-rays and instructions. Kaito needed crutches. No walking for three weeks, at the minimum. No deliveries for six. Maybe longer.
Haruka remained silent.
She did not speak until they were alone again.
"So… you can't work."
"Nope."
"And already the bakery finds it hard to pay on time."
"Yup."
Haruka bit her lip, trying to do the math in her head. Her pay at the bookstore barely covered food. They still had rent. Utilities. Kaito's hospital bill, even with partial insurance, would crush them.
He must've seen the panic flash across her face, because he quickly added, "Don't worry. We'll figure something out."
She looked at him. "You're always saying that."
"Because it's always true."
Haruka walked Kaito home that night. He gritted with every step or two, but still refused to give up. When they did finally make it to the apartment, he collapsed onto the couch in a big flourish of theatrics.
"I miss two working legs already."
Haruka sat beside him, gently untying his sneakers and rearranging the ice pack the nurse had put on his ankle.
"You don't have to look after me, you know," he said.
"I want to."
There was silence.
The sort of silence that wasn't uncomfortable—just packed.
"I'll check for extra hours at the bookstore," she said. "Or help stock shelves. I can do nights, too."
"You're already doing so much."
Haruka looked into his eyes. "You did the same for me when I couldn't move. It's my turn."
He wanted to argue, she could tell. But instead, he leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
"Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Don't forget to live."
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
He turned his head toward her, smile soft despite the pain. "Don't shrink just to keep us afloat. You've only just started breathing again, Haruka. Don't stop now."
Her chest tightened.
She remembered the dust of the bookstore, the strangers and their implicit stories, how the world had not become so scary for the first time.
She nodded. "Okay. I won't."
He held her hand again. She didn't move away.
And with that small dim apartment, where the scents of soup were discernible and the hum of the heater could be heard, Haruka realized something:
Pain did not always ruin.
Sometimes, it merely revealed.
That night, while Kaito slept on the couch, Haruka opened her book once more.
She skipped past pages of despair. The empty pages that had taunted her. And she began to write—not poetry, not yet—but lists.
Ideas.
Plans.
Ways to make it happen.
She was still afraid. Still unsure.
But when she shut the book, she felt something quietly defiant begin to bloom deep within her chest.
They would get through this.
Together.
But just as she was grasping the lights—
Kaito's phone beeped again.
A message.
From a number that was unknown to her.
"We know where you are now, Haruka."
Haruka's fingers went cold as she read the receiver.
She glanced at the screen.
And suddenly, the serene world she'd started to rebuild seemed like it was collapsing around her.