The first time Riku called her after midnight, Mizuki had thought it was an emergency.
Now she knew better.
Emergencies were sharp, urgent things. Panic. Noise. Breathless apologies.Riku's late-night calls were the opposite. They arrived quietly, like a tide she had learned to expect. Not crashing—just inevitable.
Her phone lit up at 12:47 a.m.
She hadn't been asleep. She rarely was anymore, not really. Her body rested, but some part of her stayed alert, tuned to the possibility of his name appearing on her screen.
Riku
She answered on the second ring.
"Hey," she said, already softening her voice.
There was a pause before he spoke. Not hesitation—fatigue. The kind that weighed words down before they even left the mouth.
"Hey, Mizuki," he murmured. The tired version of her name. The one that slipped out when he stopped performing for the world.
"Rough day?" she asked.
A quiet exhale. "You could say that."
She shifted onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder. Outside her window, the city hummed faintly—cars passing, a distant train, life continuing without either of them needing to participate.
He talked in pieces at first. Half-formed complaints. Long pauses. She didn't rush him. She never did. Silence with Riku wasn't awkward; it was an invitation.
"Work's been… weird," he said finally. "I feel like everyone expects me to have answers I don't have yet."
"You don't have to have them yet," she said.
"I know. Logically. But it's like—" He stopped, searching. "It's like I'm always catching up to a version of myself that's already disappointing someone."
Her chest tightened.
"You're allowed to be unfinished," she said gently. "You're not behind. You're just human."
Another pause. Then a small, humorless laugh. "You always say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you've figured it out."
She stared at the dark ceiling. The faint crack near the corner she'd been meaning to tell the landlord about for months.
"I haven't," she said. "I just think about things a lot."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's why I call you."
There it was. Casual. Unloaded. A truth to him, a weight to her.
He kept talking. About his boss, who smiled too much and listened too little. About a project that felt meaningless no matter how much effort he poured into it. About the strange fear of waking up one day and realizing this was it—that this confusing, exhausting middle was all there was.
Mizuki listened, offering sounds of acknowledgment at the right moments. A soft mm. A quiet I get that. She learned long ago that Riku didn't need fixing; he needed space to exist without being judged.
"You're allowed to be tired," she reminded him. "You push yourself harder than anyone expects you to."
"That's because I don't want to mess things up," he said.
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
She smiled sadly. "I know you."
The words settled between them.
He shifted on his end, fabric brushing the microphone. She pictured him rubbing his face, eyes closed, shoulders finally dropping now that he wasn't alone with his thoughts.
"Mizuki," he said again.
"Yes?"
"I really don't know what I'd do without you."
This time, the words stayed longer.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her pillow. She waited a second before answering, just long enough to steady her voice.
"You'd manage," she said. "You always do."
"But it's easier when you're there," he said. "When I can talk to you, everything feels… less heavy."
She closed her eyes.
This was the line she never crossed. The place where she redirected, softened, kept the balance intact. If she leaned too far into words like always and there, they might tip into something else. Something fragile.
"I'm glad I can help," she said instead.
And she was. That was the worst part. She was glad.
They talked about smaller things then. A show he'd half-watched. A memory from college he suddenly remembered. The conversation drifted the way late-night ones always did, unstructured and gentle, like they were both afraid to wake something sleeping between them.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time blurred.
"You should sleep," she said eventually. "You sound like you're fading."
"Yeah," he admitted. "I probably should."
Neither of them hung up.
She waited. He waited. This, too, had become habit—lingering at the edge of goodbye, as if the call itself were a small shelter neither of them was eager to leave.
"Mizuki?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks," he said. "For always picking up."
Always.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do," he said softly. "It means a lot. You mean a lot."
Her throat tightened, but she managed a smile he couldn't see. "Get some rest, Riku."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The call ended.
The silence that followed was heavier than the conversation itself.
Mizuki stared at her phone, the screen already dark, her reflection faint and unfamiliar. Her room felt too quiet now, like something essential had been removed.
She replayed the call without meaning to. The way his voice had dropped when he relaxed. The way he said her name when he was worn down enough to be honest. The way he leaned on her emotionally without ever realizing how much weight she was carrying in return.
She wondered—again—if he ever noticed the pattern. How he came to her empty and left fuller. How she absorbed his confusion, his fears, his exhaustion, and quietly folded them away so he wouldn't have to.
Friendship, she told herself. This was what it looked like.
But friendship wasn't supposed to feel like this slow erasure. This quiet agreement to be everything and ask for nothing.
She rolled onto her back, phone resting on her chest, warmth already fading.
Mizuki knew she would answer the next call, and the one after that. She knew she would keep listening, keep steadying him, keep being the place he landed when the world felt uncertain.
Because being needed—even this way—felt safer than risking being unwanted.
Comfort had taught her to stay. Safety had taught her to endure.
And love—unspoken, unreturned, endlessly patient—had convinced her that disappearing piece by piece was a fair price to pay for remaining indispensable.