POV: Kaito
Tokyo was colder than he ever remembered.
Not a cold that lingered in the wind, but one that seeped down into your bones—quiet and persistent. The city lights still shone like stars that had fallen into the streets, but to Kaito, everything was just a bit darker without her.
The ramen shop was small, located in the back alley of a crowded neighborhood. Steam constantly poured from the kitchen, mixing with the scent of garlic and broth. Kaito worked the nighttime shift, his hands red from washing dishes, his apron always wet. Customers never even saw him, and that did not upset him at all.
He needed the money. That was all that mattered.
By day, he helped his friend Ren out at the tiny corner coffee shop near an ancient tram stop. It had antique chairs and too many potted plants. Every now and then, visiting foreigners would show up, and Kaito would take advantage of the opportunity to practice elementary English phrases—just in case Haruka might find herself needing them someday in that world.
His counsel wasn't significant, but he put all his yen into a small envelope that he stored in his desk drawer. It was labeled in his bad handwriting:
For Us.
It was on one late evening after work that Kaito sat on the balcony of his friend's apartment, a can of warm tea in one hand and a notebook in the other. The city rumbled beneath him, cars and trains moving like distant thoughts.
He flipped to a page near the back. At the top, in sloppy handwriting:
Plans for Living with Haruka
Below, in haphazard bullet points:
– Find a cheap, quiet place to live
– She loves bakeries → look for bakery hiring?
– Part-time job + scholarship = maybe enough for tuition?
– Sun in the morning, someplace peaceful
– Don't mess this up.
He smiled faintly at the last line.
He had no idea how to do it—only that he must. Waiting was not enough. Lurking behind walls, sending her messages, expecting she could get out on her own—it was all cowardice now.
Haruka was better than hope.
She was better than choice.
The next morning, Kaito took the long train journey to the fringes of Tokyo. The city slowly fell away behind lines of quiet suburbs and tree-lined roads. He found himself at a modest university campus—a place he'd found online after searching the net for hours.
It wasn't the prestige school. But it had a literature major. It had tiny classes. It had muffled corners and creaking wooden benches reminiscent of the coffee garden where they had shared their first genuine dialogue.
He opened the admissions room door, the heart pounding louder than it had to.
I'm not coming in, he explained to the flabbergasted receptionist, "but I have a question… if someone didn't finish high school the regular way, is there an in?"
She blinked. "You mean someone who's not currently enrolled?"
"Yes. A friend."
She nodded purposefully. "There are special avenues of entry, yes. Especially for students who have… exceptional circumstances. We even have support programs. Your friend is from Tokyo, yes?
"No," Kaito said. "But she wants to be."
The receptionist handed him a few brochures. "You'll want to speak with our counselor if she's serious. Or if you're serious."
"I am," he said, folding the paper like it was a fragile letter. "Even if it's just me for now."
That night, Kaito returned home to an empty apartment. Ren was out with his girlfriend, and the silence felt unfamiliar.
He sat on the floor with his small box of things: tired headphones, an unused camera after years, a signed CD of a group that he used to love. He started to sell the stuff one by one over the Internet.
None of it mattered anymore.
He gazed at his phone, then produced the tiny photo Haruka had sent so many years before—her feet in contrasting socks, corner of a notebook, cup of hot coffee beside it.
She had not shown her face. She never did. But that one photo had sufficed to bring him this far.
The photo had become to represent something. Not just her—but the quiet kind of life they both wanted. Gentle mornings. A home that wasn't full of expectations. Just enough to catch one's breath and dream again.
Ren found him scribbling in the margins of a brochure later that week.
"You doing a poem?" he asked, kneeling down to Kaito's shoulder level.
"No," Kaito replied. "Planning."
Ren arched an eyebrow. "For that girl?"
Kaito nodded.
Ren fell on the couch. "You really expect she'll pull through?"
Kaito stared out the window.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But if she does, I want her to have something waiting. Not nothing."
Ren was quiet for a moment.
"You're an idiot," he grumbled.
"Most probably."
"But the good kind."
Kaito smiled. "I'll settle for that.".
In his coat pocket, Kaito carried the brochure everywhere these days. The paper edges were starting to fray.
Sometimes, he imagined handing it to Haruka.
Sometimes, he imagined her agreeing.
Most of the time, he reminded himself not to hope.
But at night, when the wind shifted and the silence grew so thick, he would whisper the life he imagined for her into the darkness.
A small kitchen filled with the smell of bread.
A poem on a napkin.
A broken windows apartment and ringing laughter off walls.
A home—not perfect, but theirs.
He didn't know if they'd make it.
But in what they'd suffered, and hadn't yet endured, he created a map to continue.
One step at a time.