Tuesday, 3:15 PM. I sat in my apartment, sketchbook open to a blank page. The pencil felt wrong in my hand, too light or too heavy, I couldn't tell which. My coffee—instant, from a convenience store—tasted like disappointment.
This was stupid. It was just a coffee shop. Tokyo had hundreds of them.
But none of them had purple-haired waitresses who threw cleaning cloths at me. None of them had that perfect afternoon light that made everything drawable. None of them had become the best part of my day without me noticing.
I gave up on the sketch and checked my phone. Still no response to Sunday's messages. Just my last Let me know if you need anything hanging there, read but unanswered except for her terse I'm fine. See you around.
See you around. Like we were random acquaintances, not... whatever we'd been becoming.
Wednesday arrived with rain and a group project meeting.
"We could hit that coffee place you're always talking about," Kenji suggested as we packed up from class. "Anteiku? You said it's quiet for studying."
"It's... probably busy today." The lie tasted sour. "Library's better for group work."
"Since when do you choose the library over coffee?" Yui asked. "You literally complained about library coffee for twenty minutes last week."
"Just trying something different."
They exchanged glances but didn't push. We ended up at the library, drinking terrible coffee from paper cups while discussing Renaissance perspective. I contributed the minimum required, mind elsewhere.
"You okay?" Mai asked during a break. "You seem off this week."
"Just tired. Work stuff."
Another lie. The government statistics job that didn't exist couldn't be causing problems. But it was easier than explaining that a coffee shop waitress had sent three words that felt like a door closing.
Thursday patrol started the same as always—meet Yamamoto, walk the district, pretend everything was normal. Except Yamamoto had apparently developed telepathy.
"So what happened with coffee shop girl?"
I nearly walked into a light pole. "What?"
"You've checked your phone twelve times in the past hour. You keep looking at Anteiku every time we pass that street. And you have that face."
"What face?"
"The 'I got dumped but don't understand why' face. Very popular with guys your age."
"We weren't dating. Can't be dumped if you're not dating."
"Ah." Yamamoto nodded sagely. "The worst kind of dumping. When you don't even know what you lost."
We walked in silence for a block before he continued.
"Want some unsolicited advice from someone who's been there?"
"Not really."
"Too bad. Here it is: sometimes people pull away for reasons that have nothing to do with you. Family stuff, personal issues, fear of getting close. Whatever it is, you can't fix what you don't understand."
"So what do I do?"
"Show up. Not in a pushy way, but just... be there. Make it clear the door's open if she wants to walk through it." He shrugged. "Or move on. Your choice."
"That's terrible advice."
"Yeah, well, I'm a government employee, not a relationship counselor."
The rest of patrol passed quietly. Yamamoto didn't mention it again, but his words stuck. Show up. Be there. Make it clear the door's open.
By evening, I'd made a decision. Or rather, my feet had made it for me, carrying me toward Anteiku before my brain could list all the reasons this was a bad idea.
I stopped across the street, watching through the windows. The warm light spilled out like always, classical music probably playing inside. A few customers sat at scattered tables. And there, behind the counter, purple bangs catching the light as she prepared someone's order.
My chest did something complicated.
She looked the same. Moved with the same efficient grace. Served customers with the same polite distance. But something was missing—that almost-smile when she'd spot me, the way she'd linger just a second when placing my cup down.
I could leave. She'd made her position clear. See you around meant "don't see me at all."
Instead, I crossed the street.
The bell chimed. She looked up automatically, and our eyes met. Something flickered across her face—surprise? regret?—before the professional mask slammed down.
"Welcome to Anteiku," she said, like I was any customer. Like we hadn't watched fireworks together five days ago.
"Hey." I moved to the counter instead of my usual table. "Coffee, please. For here."
"Of course."
She turned to prepare it, movements sharp and precise. No asking about my week. No teasing about vegetables. Just service.
"Touka—"
"Your coffee." She set it on the counter between us like a barrier. "Will that be all?"
I studied her face, looking for something, anything that explained this shift. But she wouldn't meet my eyes, focusing on wiping down the already clean counter.
"Yeah. That's all."
I took my coffee to the corner table—muscle memory, I guess. The shop felt different, like all the warmth had leaked out despite the identical decor. I pulled out my sketchbook more for something to do than any real desire to draw.
"You came back."
I looked up. She stood a careful distance away, coffee pot in hand like a shield.
"It's good coffee," I said simply.
"Right. The coffee." She refilled my cup unnecessarily. "How's... how's the art assignment going?"
"Fine. Turned it in Monday."
"Good. That's good."
We stared at each other, the weight of unspoken things heavy between us. I wanted to ask what changed. Why Sunday's messages had felt like a wall going up. What I'd done wrong at the festival.
Instead I just asked "The rabbit keychain. Is it holding up okay?"
Her hand went unconsciously to her school bag on the counter. "It's fine. Sturdy."
"Good. Those game booth prizes can be pretty cheap."
"This one's good quality. For a rigged game prize."
Almost a smile. Almost the Touka I'd gotten to know. Then it vanished, professionalism reasserting itself.
"I should check on other customers," she said.
"Touka, did I—" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "Saturday. Did I do something wrong?"
She froze, back to me. For a moment I thought she might actually answer, might explain this sudden distance.
"No," she said quietly. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why—"
"It's complicated." She turned, meeting my eyes for just a second. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't."
She walked away before I could respond, disappearing into the back room. I sat there for another twenty minutes, coffee growing cold, hoping she'd come back. She didn't.
Finally I left money on the table and headed for the door. Yoshimura appeared from somewhere, gentle smile tinged with something like sympathy.
"Have a good evening, Sota-kun," he said. "You're always welcome here."
The emphasis on 'always' felt deliberate, but I couldn't parse the meaning. I nodded and left, bell chiming a lonely goodbye.
The walk home stretched forever. I'd shown up, made it clear the door was open. But she'd chosen to keep it closed, and I had to respect that. Even if it made no sense to me. Even if Saturday had felt like the beginning of something good.
My phone stayed silent. No messages about the stupid vegetables or using medium heat. Just the growing distance between what was and what could have been.
That night I drew from memory again—not Touka this time, but the coffee shop itself. Empty corners and warm light and the shape of absence where something used to be.
It wasn't until I was getting ready for bed that I realized I'd left my good eraser at the shop. On the corner table where I always sat.
I'd have to go back for it eventually.
Or maybe I'd just buy a new one.
Yeah. Probably that...