The weekend came like a deep breath after a long run.
For most students in the dorms and apartments around the university, it was a reprieve—a time for resetting laundry cycles, catching up on sleep, and procrastinating on papers that wouldn't write themselves.
But for Shinichi, it felt more like a quiet, looming fog settling over everything. A fog full of unspoken words, lingering touches, and two sets of eyes—one sharp and bright like fire, the other soft and dark like the calm before a storm—both watching him, waiting.
He stayed in that Saturday morning. The world outside his window was brighter than it had been in days; the rain had passed, and the skies had turned a pale blue with wisps of clouds drifting lazily overhead.
The concrete of the surrounding buildings shimmered faintly under the sunlight, drying puddles leaving dark trails on the ground like a fading memory.
Inside, Shinichi stood before his stovetop with a pan in one hand and a recipe app in the other, utterly frozen.
"Why is this so complicated for scrambled eggs?" he muttered under his breath.
He had cracked the eggs with too much force, half of the second one splashing outside the bowl.
The oil in the pan hissed ominously, and his attempt at seasoning turned into a small sneeze from the pepper dust wafting into his nose.
By the time he had managed to scrape the slightly overcooked clumps of egg onto a plate, he felt like he had fought a war and barely survived.
He sat at the small table, chewing the rubbery meal in silence, eyes fixed on the plain white walls of his apartment. It was still too quiet.
And then, as if summoned by his restlessness, the doorbell rang.
He blinked, wiped his mouth, and shuffled to the door, half-expecting a delivery he didn't remember ordering. Instead, it was Koizumi.
She stood with a small cardboard box in her hands, her hair tied up in a loose bun and a cardigan draped over her usual casual wear. Her expression was neutral but soft, a subtle tension behind her polite smile.
"Morning," she said. "I brought the notes you missed in Contemporary Literature. I figured you'd want them before Monday."
He stepped aside, letting her in without a word.
Koizumi entered the apartment like she belonged there—not out of arrogance, but with the quiet familiarity of someone who had helped you fold your laundry once or twice, who knew where the spare chopsticks were kept without asking.
She placed the box on the table and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Shinichi returned to his seat across from her, unsure how to begin.
The silence stretched, thick with yesterday's words and the echo of hands briefly clasped.
Koizumi spoke first.
"Did Hinoka say anything more?"
He shook his head. "Not really. Just... told me not to stall."
Koizumi smiled bitterly, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. "That sounds like her."
"I don't know what to do," Shinichi admitted quietly. "I don't want to hurt either of you."
Koizumi looked at him for a long moment, then let out a breathless laugh. "You can't avoid that forever, Shinichi. This isn't a math equation you can balance. One of us is going to get hurt. Maybe both."
He looked down, hands curled into loose fists on the table.
"You've always wanted peace," she continued, her voice softer now. "You've always tried to keep things balanced."
"When we were kids, when we fought, you'd play mediator. You'd distract us with a game or run off to make us chase you instead of yelling at each other."
He remembered that. The childish games. The afternoons where Hinoka would sulk after losing a race and Koizumi would quietly cry over a scraped knee, and he—always caught between—would throw out silly jokes, offer half-melted ice cream, anything to bring back the fragile harmony.
"But we're not kids anymore," she said.
He looked up at her, and the way she gazed at him was not pleading or demanding. It was understanding. It was acceptance of pain yet to come.
Before either of them could say more, the doorbell rang again.
Shinichi stood slowly, heart tightening with suspicion. He opened the door—and there stood Hinoka.
In jeans and a jacket, her helmet still under one arm from riding her scooter, she raised an eyebrow the moment she saw Koizumi inside.
"Busy?" she asked dryly.
Koizumi didn't flinch. She turned slightly in her seat and offered a faint nod. "Just dropping off notes."
"Of course," Hinoka replied, stepping inside uninvited. "I'll be quick. I left my jacket here the other night."
She walked in like she owned the place, brushing past Shinichi, and grabbed the navy jacket hanging from the back of the chair near his closet. But instead of leaving, she lingered.
"While I'm here," she said slowly, "maybe we should clear something up."
Koizumi stood.
Shinichi felt his stomach drop.
"This isn't the place," he began, but Hinoka raised a hand.
"It's as good a place as any." Her voice wasn't loud, but it was sharp. "We can't keep pretending like we don't know what's happening."
"Like we're all just... friends hanging out, waiting for some fairytale ending where nobody gets hurt."
Koizumi's jaw tensed. "I don't think I've been pretending."
Hinoka took a step forward. "Then what are you doing? Sitting here, smiling, playing the sweet childhood friend who waits and watches?"
Koizumi's eyes narrowed. "And you? Throwing yourself at him, always joking, always flirting, pretending you're not scared out of your mind that he might not choose you?"
Shinichi stood between them now, heart pounding.
"Stop it," he said, more firmly than he intended. "Both of you. Please."
The room fell silent again.
Koizumi looked down, stepping back. "Sorry. That wasn't fair."
Hinoka let out a shaky breath. "Yeah. Me too."
They both looked at him then, two halves of a world he hadn't realized he'd built his entire life around.
"I care about both of you," he said slowly, voice almost a whisper. "You're... my family. You always have been."
Hinoka smiled faintly. "But families don't kiss under the stairs behind the gym, do they?"
Koizumi turned her gaze to the window.
"No," Shinichi admitted.
The truth hung there, raw and unresolved.
Koizumi picked up her notebook. "I'll go. You need time."
Hinoka didn't stop her. Neither did Shinichi.
After the door closed, Hinoka remained for a moment, staring at the empty chair. Then she turned to him.
"When you do decide," she said softly, "don't do it because you're scared of losing one of us. Do it because you can't bear to live without the other."
And then she left too, the door closing with a gentle click.
Shinichi stood alone in his apartment.
Outside, the sky was still bright. The rain had gone. But in his chest, the storm was only just beginning.