For hours, there is nothing. Just the continued, oppressive silence from Rina's room. I sit on the sofa, pretending to read a manga, but my ears are strained, listening for any sign of activity. Did she open the door? Did she see the gifts? Did she take them inside, or did she set them on fire as a warning to all who dare to cross her? The suspense is killing me.
Just as I am about to give up hope and resign myself to a life of silent, sisterless misery, her door creaks open. I do not dare to look. I hear the soft rustle of the paper bags. Then, the door clicks shut again.
She has taken them. It is not a declaration of peace, but it is not a declaration of war, either. It is a ceasefire.
The next morning, I wake up to a miracle. On the kitchen table, there are two plates. Two glasses of orange juice. Two perfectly cooked omelets. It is a peace treaty, offered in the form of breakfast foods.
I am eating, a wave of profound relief washing over me, when Rina finally emerges from her room. She is wearing one of my old, oversized hoodies, and she is hugging the new mochi plushie to her chest. She does not look at me. She just shuffles to the table and sits down, picking at her omelet.
The silence is still there, but it is different now. It is not the cold, angry silence of before. It is a fragile, uncertain silence. A silence waiting to be broken.
I decide to be the one to break it.
"Rina," I say, my voice quiet.
She flinches slightly but does not look up.
"I am sorry," I continue, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. "I was a complete idiot. You were right about Haruka. I should have listened to you. I never should have gone to meet her. And what happened at that hotel… I am so, so sorry that you had to see that. I swear, it meant nothing. I was just trying to get away from her."
She is still not looking at me, but I see a single tear drop from her eye and land on her plate.
"I know," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.
"I just… I hate this," I admit, the frustration of the past weeks spilling out. "I hate not talking to you. The house is too quiet. I miss you."
That finally makes her look up. Her eyes are red-rimmed and full of a deep, complicated sadness. "I missed you, too," she whispers. Her voice is a fragile thread. "I was so angry. But mostly, I was just… scared. I saw her with you, and I thought… I thought I was going to lose you to her."
"You are never going to lose me," I say, and the words are a vow. "Especially not to someone like her."
A small, watery smile touches her lips. "Okay," she says.
It is not a magical fix. The deep, complicated issues between us are still there, lurking beneath the surface. But the cold war is over. We are talking again.
That evening, we are in the living room, watching a movie. It is an old habit, a comfortable ritual. At some point, without a word, she moves from her end of the sofa to mine. She leans her head against my shoulder, just like she used to.
I freeze for a moment, my body tense. But then I relax, and I let her. It is still charged, still complicated. But it is not a joke, and it is not a tease. It is just… us. Finding our way back to a new kind of normal, one quiet, shared moment at a time.