Sunday mornings were usually Riku's time.
Time to sleep in.
Time to brew his own coffee slowly, lazily, with no orders to rush or cups to stack.
Maybe sketch out a café layout in one of the many notebooks he never finished.
Maybe sit by the window and stare out at Tokyo pretending it moved just for him.
But this Sunday, he was at Roastery Gekkō.
Voluntarily.
Apron off.
Not working.
Just waiting.
Sakura had texted him.
A short, simple message.
> "Are you around tomorrow? I want to ask you something."
That was it.
No greeting.
No emoji.
No punctuation, even.
But it was enough to make him show up an hour before opening, the place still dark except for the soft spill of early sun through the blinds.
And she arrived ten minutes later.
Wearing a pale-blue hoodie and black leggings. No makeup. Hair tied up, but loose, like she hadn't tried too hard. More casual than he'd ever seen her.
More real.
She hesitated in the doorway, a little breathless from walking.
"You came early," she said.
"You messaged me," he replied, as if that were all the reason the world ever needed.
She stepped inside, letting the warmth of the café envelope her like a second skin. Without the usual hum of customers, the space felt almost sacred. No clinking glasses. No jazz. No chatter.
Just her footsteps against polished wood.
Just his breath as she approached.
He had already prepared two lattes—both with cream swirled carefully into heart shapes.
Sakura raised an eyebrow as she slid into the booth. "Trying the classic today?"
"No nutmeg. No orange oil. No gimmicks," he said, sliding her cup across the table. "Just coffee and cream."
She stared at the heart. "You're getting better at the design."
He shrugged. "I had a good muse."
That earned a small sound from her—half chuckle, half sigh. Almost a laugh. Almost.
They sipped in silence.
The kind of silence you grow into.
The kind that doesn't rush.
---
After a few minutes, Sakura shifted slightly, her fingers curling around the warmth of her cup.
"Can I ask you something personal?"
Riku didn't blink. "Always."
"If you hadn't failed," she said slowly, "would you still be here?"
He looked at her. "At Gekkō?"
She nodded.
"Probably not," he admitted.
"And if you hadn't met me here?"
He studied her face now, unsure where the thread was going. "Where's this coming from?"
"I've been thinking about patterns," she said. "How small things shift big things. One missed train. One wrong coffee. One bad business partner."
He smiled faintly. "One plus one."
She froze. "What?"
"You're just one plus away from a different version of yourself," he said.
She stared at him.
"That's... eerily close to something I keep seeing," she murmured.
He leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
Sakura hesitated, then pulled out her phone. Swiped to her screenshot gallery. Flipped the screen toward him.
A single message, isolated on a dark background:
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from being seen without saying a word.
____________•••____________
"I've been getting these," she said. "For a while now. No app, no alerts, just… there. Always after something happens. After we talk. After I feel something I can't name."
Riku's face was unreadable.
He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out his phone. A different screen, different day, but the same message style.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from something meaningful.
____________•••____________
Their eyes met across the table, tension swirling like steam above their cups.
Neither said it aloud, but they both felt it:
This wasn't coincidence.
This wasn't marketing.
This was something else.
Something... personal.
"I thought it was some psychological trick," Sakura said. "An app I forgot installing. But it keeps happening. Like someone—or something—is watching."
"Same here," Riku murmured. "It always shows up after something I wouldn't normally notice. But with you…"
He stopped.
She didn't press.
Because she understood.
The silence between them wasn't silence anymore. It was waiting. It was listening. It was becoming.
---
When she stood to leave, Riku hesitated, then reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a folded paper.
A little wrinkled. Slightly smudged. Definitely old.
He held it out to her.
"What is this?" Sakura asked, unfolding it.
"My dream," he said. "Drawn on napkins. Rewritten a dozen times. It's the floor plan for the café I want to open."
She opened it fully, her eyes scanning rows of tight, scribbled notes, imperfect circles, margin doodles, arrows pointing at espresso stations and soft chairs.
A small star marked a table by the window.
"What's this one?" she asked, tapping it lightly.
"That's your seat," he said. "The quiet corner. I planned the whole layout around it."
Her throat caught.
The paper crinkled softly as she folded it again, slower this time. Like she was holding something rare.
"I'll keep it safe," she said quietly.
He nodded once. "I know."
---
That night, her phone buzzed again.
Another message.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from becoming someone else's reason to try again.
____________•••____________
She didn't tap it.
Didn't swipe it away.
Didn't overthink it.
She just stared at it.
And gently touched the folded paper now resting on her desk.