Monday arrived like a quiet sigh.
The city exhaled.
Rain-soaked rooftops released steam like breath in cold air. The streets, though drying, still shimmered with the residue of yesterday's storm. Puddles remained in crooked corners, holding onto reflections of a sky slowly clearing.
And in the gentle silence that comes only after long, heavy rain, Roastery Gekkō opened its doors again—quietly, unceremoniously, as if waking from a long nap.
Inside, the coffee shop smelled like damp earth, wood polish, and cinnamon. Familiar. Safe.
Riku arrived ten minutes earlier than usual.
He always did on Mondays—but this time, not out of routine.
Today felt different.
He walked in, locked the door behind him, and didn't reach for the broom or the sugar packets or the clipboard that usually dictated the rhythm of his shift.
Instead, he rolled up his sleeves.
Washed his hands.
Warmed the milk.
And stood behind the espresso machine, head slightly bowed, as if preparing for a performance no one else would see.
He practiced.
Once.
Twice.
Twelve times.
Spooning foam, pouring slowly, adjusting the angle of the cup with millimeter precision.
Swirls and spirals. Leaves and hearts.
Then letters.
At first, they looked like wobbly scratches in white.
Then more like strokes.
Then finally—さくら.
Each curve memorized. Each stroke rehearsed.
By the tenth attempt, he no longer needed to glance at the phone hidden behind the grinder with the hiragana pulled up.
By the twelfth, he could pour it by feel.
He wiped the counter clean. Poured a fresh cup.
And waited.
---
At 8:47, the door opened.
A gust of soft light filtered through, casting a pale rectangle across the polished floorboards.
In it stood Sakura.
She stepped in without a word, like always, the tiny bell above the door chiming once before silence reclaimed the room.
She didn't notice the light catching her like a spotlight—but Riku did.
She looked almost unreal in it.
A soft cream sweater loose around her frame. Her long, dark hair, for once, left down, slightly curled at the ends like she'd fallen asleep with it still wet.
Eyes not fully awake, but calm. Composed. As always.
He didn't speak.
Didn't ask.
Just pointed to her usual table—the small one in the corner, by the window, with the chipped leg and the view of the narrow alley she said reminded her of home.
She raised an eyebrow, curious.
He only said, "Today, let me bring it to you."
A pause. Then a nod.
She crossed the room with her usual quiet grace, her shoes barely making a sound against the floor. She set her bag down with care and sat—spine straight, hands folded in her lap, polite as a guest in someone else's house.
Riku didn't rush.
He moved behind the counter like a craftsman—measured, deliberate, no wasted steps.
But this time, there was something more.
Intention.
He steamed the milk, the hiss sharp and short, not too hot.
He poured the espresso, tapped the portafilter just right.
And then, with a slight tremble in his wrist—barely noticeable—he tilted the pitcher.
The foam curled as it left the spout.
Swirled. Folded. Lifted.
And then—stroked.
さ Sa
く ku
ら ra
One by one, the letters appeared like whispers forming a song.
He set the cup down in front of her.
Gently.
And stepped back.
Sakura stared at it.
Her breath caught.
It wasn't just a latte today.
Not just a heart or a pattern.
It was a name.
Her name.
Written in milk and foam, like a message only he dared to give.
She didn't speak right away.
Didn't touch it.
Just stared—as if afraid even the warmth of her hands would erase it.
Then, softly:
"You wrote my name."
"I practiced all morning," Riku said, quietly. "Foam isn't easy."
"You never asked how to write it."
"I looked it up."
"You never asked if I'd want that."
"I hoped you would."
She blinked. Once. Then twice.
Her fingers hovered over the cup, but still didn't lift it.
The strokes were simple. White on cream. Ephemeral. Already beginning to fade as the foam settled.
"It'll vanish if I drink it," she whispered.
"I know."
"And you'll have to do it again next time."
"I will."
A beat passed between them.
The silence wasn't awkward—it was sacred. Like breath held before a confession.
Then, she said it—softly, almost like a memory:
"No one's ever written my name in anything before."
Riku's expression didn't change. But his hand tightened slightly on the edge of the counter.
"I wanted to try," he said.
"Why?"
No hesitation.
"Because I think names matter."
The foam wavered slightly.
Sakura finally lifted the cup.
Both hands. Gently. Like lifting a fragile photograph.
She sipped—slowly, deliberately, preserving the top as best she could.
It was warm.
Smooth.
Sweet.
The kind of sweetness that didn't shout, but lingered.
When she set the cup down, the name was smudged, but still there. Blurred, not gone.
Like a dream you can still remember after waking.
She didn't speak for a long while.
Then, with her eyes on the foam:
"I think… I'm afraid," she said.
"Of what?"
"That I'll get used to this," she whispered. "To you. To mornings like this. And one day, it'll stop."
Riku leaned forward slightly, voice low.
"Then let me be the one thing that doesn't."
Sakura looked up.
Her eyes were unreadable—but not cold.
She didn't smile with her lips. Not yet.
But the corners of her gaze softened. The walls cracked—just a little.
---
Outside, the clouds parted fully for the first time in days.
Sunlight spilled through the windows like a golden tide, dancing across the coffee shop floor.
It touched the table where she sat.
The cup.
The foam.
Her hands.
And Sakura—reserved, unreachable Sakura—smiled.
Not just in the way people smile when they're being polite.
She smiled in the eyes.
The way people smile when they're being seen.
---
That night, just past midnight, as the sky outside her apartment window shimmered navy blue and the city went quiet again, her phone buzzed.
A soft screen glow lit the room.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from seeing your name through someone else's eyes.
____________•••____________
She didn't close it.
Didn't turn the phone off or swipe the notification away.
She just read it again.
And then gently placed the phone, screen up, beside her pillow.
Like a message worth keeping.
Like a memory she didn't want to forget.