The apartment was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your ears like a heavy blanket. Kazuki Harada sat on the couch, the clock on the wall ticking—tick-tock, tick-tock—its hands creeping past midnight. The soft glow of a paper lantern lit the room, casting shadows that danced on the tatami floor. On the table, a plate of onigiri sat untouched, their nori wrappers shiny under the light, next to a thermos of miso soup, still warm, its steam curling like a ghost. Kazuki had made them hours ago, expecting Emiko home from her office nomikai, a work drinking party she'd mentioned that morning. But the hours stretched, and she wasn't here, and the quiet grew louder, filling the space where her laughter should be.
Kazuki leaned back, his glasses fogging slightly from the tea he sipped, its bitter warmth grounding him. He wore a faded gray sweatshirt, his hair messy from running his hands through it, a habit when he worried. His phone lay dark on the table—no messages, no calls. He'd texted her at ten, a simple You okay?, but no reply came. Trust kept him calm, or tried to. Emiko was reliable, always texting if plans changed, but tonight felt different, a small knot tightening in his chest. He rubbed it, feeling a faint twinge, sharp like a pinprick, and blamed it on sitting too long, on the late hour, on missing her.
The apartment held their life in every corner—the cherry tree outside the window, its branches tapping—tap-tap—in the breeze, the bookshelf stuffed with novels, the fox notes he'd written for her tucked in a tin under the bed. Kazuki's eyes drifted to the table, to the onigiri he'd shaped with care, each one a small promise of home. He thought of Emiko's morning kiss, quick and soft, her scarf fluttering as she left, her voice teasing, "Don't wait up, Mr. Poet." He'd laughed then, her warmth lingering, but now, in the quiet, her absence was a weight, heavy and cold.
He stood, stretching, his joints creaking—pop—and walked to the kitchen to reheat the soup. The pot hissed—ssss—as it warmed, the miso's savory scent filling the air, a comfort that eased his worry. He checked his phone again, nothing, and sat back down, picking up a book to distract himself. The words blurred, his mind on Emiko—her smile at the festival, her laughter over dinner, the way her phone buzzed lately, her eyes flickering with something he couldn't read. He pushed the thought away, trust his anchor, and focused on the clock, its steady tick-tock a reminder that she'd come home soon.
At half-past one, the door rattled and swung open, Emiko stumbling in, her shoes slipping off with a soft thud. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair loose and wild, her coat half-on, smelling of sake and city night. "Kazuki," she slurred, her voice thick but warm, "I'm so sorry, it got crazy." She leaned against the wall, giggling, her eyes bright but hazy, and Kazuki's worry melted into relief, though that twinge in his chest flickered again, sharper now. He stood, crossing to her, his hands gentle on her arms.
"You're home," he said, his voice soft, a smile tugging at his lips. "I was starting to think you joined a karaoke band."
She laughed, a high, tipsy sound—hee-hee—and swayed into him, her forehead against his chest. "You're too good," she mumbled, her breath warm through his sweatshirt. "Party went late, Riku dragged us to karaoke, it was chaos." The name Riku, said so casually, pricked Kazuki's heart, a memory of her phone buzzing, of her distracted smiles. But he pushed it down, focusing on her weight against him, her presence filling the quiet apartment.
"Come on," he said, guiding her to the couch, her steps wobbly—shuffle-shuffle. She sank into the cushions, kicking off her socks, and Kazuki brought the thermos, pouring miso soup into a bowl. The steam rose and she took it, her hands trembling slightly, her eyes softening. "You made this for me?" she asked, her voice small, almost guilty. Kazuki nodded, sitting beside her, the couch creaking—squeak. "And onigiri," he said, pointing to the plate. "Thought you'd be hungry."
Emiko's eyes glistened, her smile wobbly. "You're too much," she said, sipping the soup, its warmth bringing color to her face. She told him about the nomikai—her boss's bad jokes, the endless sake toasts, Riku's off-key karaoke that had everyone laughing. Her words tumbled out, slurred but lively, and Kazuki listened, his heart easing with each story, though Riku's name lingered, a shadow in her laughter. He noticed her phone, half-out of her bag, its screen dark but heavy, and wondered who'd texted her tonight, who'd kept her so late.
"You should've seen Riku," she said, giggling, an onigiri in her hand, crumbs on her lips. "He sang 'My Heart Will Go On' like he was on a sinking ship." Kazuki smiled, but it felt tight, his chest twinging again, a quick stab that made him wince. He rubbed it, hiding the motion, and laughed. "Sounds like a night," he said, keeping his voice light. Emiko didn't notice, her eyes on the onigiri, her thoughts far away, maybe with Riku, maybe with the party's glow.
They talked a little longer, her voice slowing, her eyelids drooping. Kazuki took the empty bowl, setting it on the table with a soft clink, and helped her stand. "Bedtime," he said, his arm around her, her body warm and heavy against his. She leaned into him, murmuring, "You're my hero," her words slurring into a sigh. They shuffled to the bedroom, the floor cool under their feet—slap-slap—and Kazuki helped her out of her coat, her dress, her laughter soft as she fumbled with buttons.
In her pajamas, she climbed into bed, the mattress creaking—groan—and Kazuki tucked the blanket around her, its softness a shield against the night. She reached for his hand, her fingers cool, and squeezed. "I love you," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep and sake, but sincere. Kazuki's heart swelled, the twinge fading for a moment, and he kissed her forehead, her skin warm under his lips. "Love you too," he said, his voice a vow, steady despite the doubts creeping in.
He changed into his pajamas, the room dark except for the moonlight slipping through the curtains, its silver glow soft on Emiko's face. She was already asleep, her breathing slow—huff, huff—a gentle rhythm that usually soothed him. But tonight, as he lay beside her, the twinge returned, sharper, a deep ache spreading through his chest. He breathed slowly, counting each inhale, blaming the late hour, the worry, the weight of waiting. It wasn't his heart, he told himself, just fatigue, just love stretched thin by her absence.
His mind wandered to her phone, to Riku, to the late nights she'd had lately—nomikais, meetings, vague excuses. He thought of her buzzing phone at the festival, her quick glance at dinner, the way her laughter felt forced sometimes, like a song played too loud to hide a crack. Doubt whispered, cold and sharp, but Kazuki pushed it away. Trust was their foundation, built on years of shared moments—the bridge, the festival, the quiet evenings. She was his Emiko, his light, and he wouldn't let a late night dim that.
Still, as he lay there, the clock ticking—tick-tock—in the living room, the apartment felt smaller, the silence heavier. He thought of his notebook under the bed, its pages filled with their story, and wondered if he'd write tonight's wait, her tipsy return, the name Riku heavy on her tongue. The twinge pulsed again, a warning he ignored, focusing instead on her breathing, her warmth beside him, the love that held them together.
Emiko stirred, murmuring something in her sleep, her hand reaching for him. Kazuki caught it, lacing their fingers, and felt her settle, her body curling closer. The ache in his chest eased, though it didn't vanish, a quiet echo of the strain he felt but wouldn't name. He closed his eyes, the moonlight fading, and tried to sleep, holding onto her, onto them, as the night deepened around them.
The apartment remembered—the onigiri's care, the soup's warmth, the love in Kazuki's wait. But it also held Emiko's secrets, her phone's silent weight, the name Riku in the air. Their love was a flame, bright but fragile, and as Kazuki drifted toward sleep, he couldn't see how close it was to flickering out, leaving only the quiet and his aching heart behind.