The last day came quietly.
March 31st.
No neon farewell.
No streamers or plastic-wrapped cupcakes.
No promotions, no baristas in themed shirts, no "Thanks for everything!" chalkboard drawings.
Just…
regular hours.
Regular jazz.
Regular customers ordering their regular drinks—never knowing they were sipping the final echoes of Roastery Gekkō.
---
Sakura arrived before opening.
The street outside was still waking up.
Trucks groaned, brakes hissed.
A neighbor swept the front of her flower shop, the smell of early bloom mixing with city dust.
But here, behind Gekkō's windows, the world was holding its breath.
She didn't knock.
She used the spare key.
Riku had handed it to her two nights ago—no ceremony, no explanation.
Just a press of metal into her palm, warm from his hand.
"If you need the silence before the crowd," he'd said, "you're welcome anytime."
She hadn't asked why.
She hadn't needed to.
And today—on the last morning—it mattered.
The silence.
The stillness.
The sacred quiet of before.
---
The café smelled different that morning.
Still coffee.
Still roasted beans and hints of citrus wood polish.
But beneath that familiar scent was something subtle and strange.
Finality.
Like the way a room smells before someone moves out.
Before something becomes memory.
Sakura stood near the bar, her hands in her coat pockets.
Unsure if she should sit.
Unsure if it would feel too much like pretending everything was normal.
So she stood.
Letting her breath warm the air.
Letting the silence hold her.
---
Riku emerged from the kitchen.
There was flour on his apron and tiredness in his eyes.
But also calm.
Like he had finally made peace with something.
"You're early," he said.
"You gave me a key."
"I was hoping you'd use it."
They didn't move closer.
Not yet.
But something invisible had already narrowed the distance between them.
---
After a moment, she said, "I dreamed of this place last night."
He blinked.
"Oh?"
"It was closed. But when I looked through the window, there were stars inside. Not light bulbs. Just… stars. Hanging from the ceiling."
He smiled. "Sounds more magical than my budget allowed."
"No," she whispered. "It felt real."
---
He didn't respond right away.
Instead, he moved behind the counter and crouched down.
When he stood again, there was a mug in his hands.
Not white.
Not like the others.
Blush pink.
The only one of its kind.
Ceramic. Hand-thrown. Uneven rim. Tiny speckled pattern like petals scattered by wind.
On its side, in small, deliberate brushstrokes:
(Sakura Special)
Sakura stared at it.
"I… I thought that was just a name," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
"It was," Riku replied. "But then you stayed."
He held it with both hands, careful. Almost reverent.
Then moved to the espresso station.
But instead of reaching for the usual beans, he opened a different tin. Pulled out a small bag sealed with string and tucked inside a handwritten note she couldn't read from where she stood.
He brewed with a quiet precision—each step measured, gentle, like a ritual.
Soft vanilla.
Toasted rice.
A hint of cherry blossom.
No sugar.
No foam art.
Just intent.
The aroma floated between them before the cup ever reached her.
When he finally set it on the counter, he didn't say a word.
Just nodded once.
She didn't lift it immediately.
Didn't reach.
Instead, she looked at him and asked:
"Is this the end?"
Riku inhaled.
Then exhaled. Slowly.
"No."
"It feels like one."
"Endings aren't always bad," he said. "Some make room for beginnings."
Sakura held the cup now.
Fingers curled around the warm ceramic.
She brought it close.
Sipped.
Closed her eyes.
The taste lingered—delicate, grounding, and quietly stunning.
When she opened her eyes again, they shimmered—but she didn't cry.
"I hate that you're closing," she said.
"I hate that I can't stop it."
"I don't want this to be just a memory."
"It won't."
"Why not?"
He didn't speak.
Not immediately.
Instead, he reached over the bar, palm facing upward.
An offering.
And when she slid her fingers over his—slowly, surely—he looked at her.
"This place," he said, glancing around the worn walls and the half-empty shelf of cups,
"was never the dream."
His voice softened.
"You are."
---
She stepped around the counter.
No more walls.
No more foam between them.
And for the first time, Sakura leaned in and kissed him.
No thunderclap.
No swelling strings or romantic crescendo.
Just her.
And him.
And the scent of roasted beans and cherry blossom.
Her hand resting lightly on his chest.
His thumb brushing the edge of her wrist.
A kiss like an exhale after a long-held breath.
A kiss that said: we found something real here.
---
They sat together afterward.
Side by side.
Drinking in silence.
The door remained locked until ten.
Then the bell above the door rang—and the last day began.
Customers came and went.
Riku made drinks. Ayumu dropped in briefly, ruffled Riku's hair, left without a word.
Sakura sat at the bar.
No name in her foam today.
Because she was already there.
Already known.
---
Evening arrived like a soft closing curtain.
The last customer waved goodbye.
Riku locked the door behind them.
Then walked back to her.
Together, they flipped the sign to Closed.
For the last time.
---
Their phones buzzed.
Both screens lit up.
They already knew what it would say.
But they looked anyway.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are no longer one plus away.
You've found the one.
____________•••____________
---
No dramatics.
No grand epiphanies.
Just quiet smiles shared across a counter that had once separated them.
They stood close—hand to hand, heart to heart.
Riku glanced at her, then whispered:
"I don't know what comes next."
Sakura didn't answer with words.
She simply reached into her coat, pulled out a small notebook—the same one she always scribbled in—and tore out a page.
She handed it to him.
At the top, in neat handwriting:
The Next Blend
Ingredients:
One street corner
One small café space
One stubborn boy
One girl who believed a little late
Instructions:
Brew slowly. Add patience. Serve with sunlight.
Riku read it twice.
Then tucked it into his apron.
"You wrote us," he said.
"No," she replied. "We're just getting started."
---
As she sipped the last of her drink, her eyes softened.
"It really is the perfect blend."
He leaned forward.
"It always was."