The winter air had a sharpness that seemed to cut through the busy streets of Tokyo. Students hurried along the pathways of the university, their arms wrapped tightly around books or coats, breaths forming clouds that vanished into the gray sky. Inside the library, however, the world felt warmer, hushed by the soft rustling of pages and the low hum of radiators.
Haruto sat at one of the far tables, his brow furrowed over a stack of notes and textbooks. The astronomy midterm loomed close, and though he had spent nights poring over material, he still felt as if he were chasing shadows among constellations. Numbers blurred, theories tangled, and the fatigue of endless study weighed heavily on him.
He pressed a hand against his temple, closing his eyes. The dream of becoming an astronomer—once a bright beacon—sometimes felt unbearably distant. He thought of his hometown, his parents' sacrifices, the promises he had made to himself and Aiko. The pressure grew heavier with each thought, threatening to crush his focus.
A soft sound broke the stillness. The quiet slide of a chair across the floor. Haruto opened his eyes, startled, and found Aiko standing there, a small smile on her lips, a thermos in her hand.
"You didn't come back to the dorm for lunch," she whispered, lowering herself into the chair beside him. "So I thought I'd bring something here."
Haruto blinked at her, surprised. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," she interrupted gently. With practiced ease, she opened her bag and placed a small box on the table. Inside were neatly packed rice balls, a few slices of fruit, and her homemade tamagoyaki, the golden folds still warm.
Haruto stared at the food for a moment, and his chest tightened. "Aiko…"
"You study too much on an empty stomach," she said, trying to sound light, though there was a quiet firmness in her tone. "Eat. Please."
He picked up the chopsticks slowly, almost reverently, and took a bite. The familiar taste of her cooking filled him with warmth that no textbook could offer. "It's really good," he murmured.
She smiled faintly, leaning her chin into her hand as she watched him. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't heavy—it was the kind that wrapped itself gently around two people who didn't need to fill it with words.
When he had eaten enough, Haruto set the chopsticks down and exhaled. "I don't know if I can do this, Aiko. Sometimes it feels like the harder I try, the more the stars slip away from me."
Aiko tilted her head, her gaze softening. "Do you remember the first time you took me stargazing? You were so excited, pointing out constellations I'd never even noticed before. You spoke about them like they were old friends. Do you remember what I told you that night?"
Haruto frowned, trying to recall.
"You said," Aiko continued for him, her voice calm, "that even when stars are light-years away, their light still reaches us. It may take time, but it always arrives."
He looked at her, startled.
"Your dreams are like that," she said, her eyes unwavering. "Even if they feel far, the light will reach you as long as you keep moving forward. You don't have to chase everything at once. Just… one step at a time."
Haruto's throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. "You always make it sound so simple."
"Because I believe in you," Aiko replied softly. "Even when you doubt yourself."
The words sank deep into him, settling in the places where doubt had festered. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a shaky laugh. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Aiko looked away, her cheeks warming faintly, though her voice stayed steady. "You don't have to find out. I'll always be here."
The rest of the afternoon passed with quiet companionship. Haruto studied, his notes spread out once more, but this time the weight felt lighter. Aiko sat beside him, sketching in her notebook, occasionally glancing at him with a smile whenever his pencil paused too long.
As the sun dipped behind the city buildings and the library lights glowed brighter, Haruto finally closed his book. "I think I made some progress today," he admitted.
"Because of the food?" Aiko teased gently.
"Because of you," he corrected, meeting her eyes.
For a moment, their gazes held, and the world outside—the exams, the deadlines, the cold winter—faded. There was only the quiet warmth of being understood, of being supported without needing to ask.
When they finally stood to leave, Haruto carried her empty lunch box carefully in his bag. "I'll wash this and bring it back tomorrow," he promised.
Aiko smiled, her breath visible in the chill as they stepped outside. "Then I'll make you something new."
They walked together down the lamplit street, side by side, saying little. Words weren't needed. For Haruto, her quiet support was stronger than any grand speech, a steady flame that guided him through the dark.
And for Aiko, being his anchor—even in silence—was enough.