It happened on a Tuesday.
The sky had forgotten how to be blue.
A dull, smudged gray covered the city like someone had painted over it in tired brushstrokes.
No rain. No wind. Just clouds that lingered—the kind that threatened a storm but never followed through.
It felt like the world was holding its breath.
Sakura's steps echoed faintly against the concrete as she exited the station. Her breath fogged slightly in the crisp air, and she adjusted her scarf around her neck with gloved fingers. A soft beige wool—the one Riku had once said reminded him of warm bread.
But warmth wasn't what she felt.
Not today.
Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in a sentence that had been echoing since morning.
("I want your honest version.")
Words from her literature professor.
Said with an encouraging smile and kind eyes.
But they landed on her like a challenge she wasn't ready for.
What did honesty mean when your whole life was built around measured words and careful silences?
She frowned at the memory, scrolling through her phone without really reading. Her fingers moved automatically. Her brain didn't follow.
A flashing red light lit the intersection ahead. The crosswalk stood still, waiting.
She waited too.
The moment felt... hollow.
Like standing on the edge of something that might never come.
The light turned green.
She stepped forward.
Didn't see the car.
Didn't hear it either.
Not until—
A hand grabbed her arm.
Not gently.
Not politely.
Firmly.
Pulled her back with a sharp jolt.
Tires screamed across the wet road.
A silver sedan tore through the intersection, horn blaring, passing so close the wind from it brushed her coat.
Then silence.
The kind that slams into your chest right after the danger passes—too fast to brace for, too loud to ignore.
Sakura blinked.
Heart racing.
When she turned—
Riku.
His face was inches from hers.
His fingers still curled tightly around her forearm.
His breath came hard, visible in the cold.
Eyes wide—not with anger or relief, but with something rawer.
Fear.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice unsteady but controlled.
She nodded—too fast, too robotic.
"I didn't look," she murmured.
"I noticed," he replied, softer now.
They stood frozen. Still on the edge of the crosswalk.
Half in the street. Half on the sidewalk.
Reality slowly dripping back in around them like water filling a cracked vase.
Finally, he let go.
But the warmth of his grip stayed.
Even through her coat.
Even after it ended.
It shouldn't have meant anything.
But it did.
---
There was a vending machine a block away.
Riku led her there wordlessly, bought two canned coffees—one black, one sweetened milk blend—and found a bench nearby, just off the sidewalk.
They sat.
Close, but not touching.
Steam rose from the metal cans, curling like little ghosts in the air between them.
Neither drank.
Sakura stared at the crosswalk across the street. Still blinking red. Still indifferent to everything that had just happened.
"I wasn't thinking clearly," she said.
Riku didn't answer immediately. He waited, letting her speak on her own terms.
"I'm usually careful," she added. "I don't miss things like that."
He nodded slightly. "You're not the type to get distracted."
"I was," she said, almost ashamed. Then softer: "It was my parents."
His expression didn't change, but he leaned just slightly in her direction.
Not enough to press her.
Just enough to say: I'm here.
"They live in Sapporo," she continued. "I haven't visited in two years. Haven't called in six months."
Riku looked at her carefully.
"What happened?"
She shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug that meant I don't know how to say it without unraveling.
"They were never cruel," she said. "Just… silent. Distant. Even when I was a kid, I'd come home with drawings or grades and they'd say, 'Mm. Good.' That was it. No hugs. No conversations."
Her voice wavered slightly, not with emotion, but with the effort of remembering without flinching.
"I learned to stop speaking just to match the energy."
Riku nodded again, slow and understanding. "Sometimes silence is safe."
She turned to him. "And sometimes it's just lonely."
That made him blink.
She wasn't angry when she said it.
Just tired.
And finally, unguarded.
A breeze passed by, brushing a loose strand of hair across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear with a mechanical motion.
"They don't even know I'm in Tokyo," she said. "Didn't tell them I applied. Didn't tell them when I passed. Or moved. Or started school."
Riku's eyebrows rose slightly. "Nothing?"
"I told myself they wouldn't care. Or worse… that they'd ask questions I couldn't answer."
He tilted his head. "Like?"
She hesitated, then looked down at the can in her hands.
Cold now. Untouched.
"Like... What do you want to do with your life? What do you love? Who do you want to become?"
She let out a bitter laugh—small and hollow. "I don't have answers. I just… fill the days."
Riku was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, "I used to think my older brother was the ideal. Big job, perfect apartment, expensive cologne."
Sakura looked at him sideways.
"But the one time he visited here," Riku continued, "he told me he admired me for chasing something I loved—even if it failed. Especially if it failed."
Sakura blinked. "You failed. And they still respected it."
"Because I tried."
She absorbed that.
Let it sit.
Then, after a pause:
"What about you?"
Riku raised an eyebrow.
"Who do you want to become?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her for a long time. Not as a question. But as if he was measuring something—depth, sincerity, the moment between them.
Then he answered, clear and quiet.
"Someone who shows up when it matters."
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, the rest of the world fell away.
---
The crosswalk across the street turned green again.
Sakura didn't move.
Didn't even blink.
Instead, she whispered, "You didn't have to pull me back."
"I know," Riku said.
"But you did."
"Because I wanted to."
The light clicked red again.
Cars resumed their slow rhythm. Life resumed its steady pace.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket.
So did his.
A shared vibration. A shared interruption.
They pulled out their phones almost in sync.
And read the same message.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from a moment you'll never forget.
____________•••____________
Sakura stared at the screen.
So did Riku.
They glanced at each other.
There was no smile on either face.
No grand confession.
Just a soft understanding that maybe something was shifting.
Something small. But real.
Around them, the city continued.
Footsteps. Engines. The hum of traffic lights.
But none of it felt as loud as the silence between them.
Not an empty silence.
But the kind that feels full.
Like the pause before a kiss.
Like the moment just after a truth is spoken.
And in that stillness, Sakura leaned sideways, just slightly.
Rested her head on Riku's shoulder.
She didn't ask.
She just… did it.
And he didn't flinch.
He just stayed.
---
That moment didn't solve anything.
It didn't fix the distance between her and her parents.
Didn't answer her professor's question.
Didn't magically hand her the future like a roadmap.
But it gave her something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Held.
And for the first time in years, she let someone see that part of her.
And allowed herself to stay.