The morning light filtered gently through the blinds, casting long, soft stripes across the room. Mai stirred from her restless sleep, her body heavy as if weighed down by the thoughts that still lingered from yesterday. The apartment was quieter today, almost too quiet. The hum of the refrigerator, the occasional distant car sound, even the soft rustle of her own movements—all seemed amplified in the stillness.
She sighed, blinking at the ceiling. Yesterday had been a blur: the overwhelming sensation of being dragged out of her apartment by Sora, the dizzying crowds of the market, the strained but polite exchanges with Kyo, and, of course, the jarring realization that she felt disconnected from it all. It wasn't that the outside world was inherently bad; it just felt so other, so foreign to her now.
"Maybe there's something more to it," she mused, her voice barely above a whisper.
But that thought collided with another: the familiar pull of her apartment, her sanctuary. It had always been the safest place. Quiet. Predictable. She didn't have to pretend or deal with anyone else's expectations.
But after all these years, she couldn't keep hiding behind that wall forever.
Mai sat up, the soft rustling of the blankets briefly distracting her. She glanced at her desk, where the unfinished manuscript of her book sat, an echo of her lost creativity. She hadn't been able to write in days—not with the storm inside her mind.
Work had always been her escape, but even that felt like an impossible task now. The words seemed to belong to someone else, always just out of her reach. And the deeper she dug into the story, the more she realized she was losing herself—not just in writing, but in everything. Her relationships, her trust in people—herself.
She shook her head, willing the thoughts to quiet down. But they only came back stronger.
"Focus, Mai," she murmured, but the words felt empty.
Her thoughts drifted back to the painful lessons of her past relationships—the ones that had taught her more about her worthlessness than love. The partners who had gaslit her, used her, made her feel small and unworthy. The constant ache of betrayal, the hurt that never quite went away.
But now? Now she was alone. And though it was safe, she couldn't help but wonder: was it worth it?
Mid-afternoon came, and Mai's screen remained unchanged. She couldn't focus. Not now. Maybe not today. The decision bubbled up in her chest before she even realized it.
A walk.
Yesterday's trip, however short, had made her realize something: she could step outside. For a brief moment, she could go somewhere else. No need for interaction. No need to make connections. A quick trip to the nearby conbini. Just a snack. Something easy. Something familiar.
Maybe that was the answer. She grabbed her jacket from the chair, forcing herself into it. She didn't know why she hesitated—was it the fear of being seen, of being out there again? Or was it simply the act of stepping out of her comfort zone? Whatever the reason, the decision had been made.
The chilly evening air met her as soon as she stepped into the hallway, and a wave of anxiety crept up her spine. It's just a walk. It's just the conbini.
She clenched her fists. She could do this.
The streets of Tokyo felt different at night. The usual chaos of the day was replaced by an eerie calmness. The hum of distant traffic and the occasional rustle of a passing car kept the silence from becoming oppressive, but everything was quieter. More intimate. The city felt like it had a life of its own at night, less crowded, less in her face.
Her footsteps echoed against the pavement, and for once, it wasn't unsettling. The quiet discomfort settled into something that felt oddly empowering. Vulnerable, yet strong. She was alone, but in control. It was like the world was a little more manageable in the stillness.
As she neared the brightly lit conbini, Mai's nerves began to settle, replaced by a weird sense of routine. This was familiar—quick in, quick out. No big deal. Just buy a snack, maybe something to drink, and head home.
She entered the store, the bell above the door jingling softly. The familiar scents of packaged snacks, cold drinks, and cleaning supplies filled her senses. The aisles stretched out before her, lined with brightly colored packages, all offering a comforting sameness. She moved down one of the aisles, her fingers grazing over the chips, contemplating her choice.
And then, she bumped into him.
A sharp, quiet thud as her shoulder brushed against something solid. She pulled back quickly, her pulse spiking as her eyes instinctively lifted. She barely had time to register the encounter before her breath caught in her throat.
Standing before her, looking as out of place as a figure from a dream, was a man—a tall, imposing figure. His dark eyes met hers with a quiet intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. He was dressed in all black sweats, his casual look belying a quiet sharpness. His black hair was tied back in a half-up bun, framing his sharp yet soft features like something out of a forgotten painting. There was an ease to his presence, as though he was completely comfortable in his own skin, and it made Mai feel small.
His gaze lingered, and for a moment, Mai felt like he could see through her, as if he were peeling back layers she wasn't ready to expose.
Her heart raced. She fumbled for words, but they didn't come. "S-Sorry," she stammered, her hands shaking slightly as she grabbed a bag of chips off the shelf, anything to make her look normal.
The man simply smiled—a small, almost amused curve of his lips—and then nodded. "It's fine."
His voice was low and smooth, and it rattled something deep inside her. She didn't know why, but the sensation of his gaze stayed with her as she scurried past him, her face burning with embarrassment. She could feel the heat of her cheeks as she quickly walked to the counter, paying for her snack without a word.
As she grabbed the change from the cashier, she heard him again. "Have a good night."
His voice was casual, but it had the weight of something more. She couldn't bring herself to respond. Instead, she turned quickly, practically running out of the store.
Her steps were faster now, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she retraced her way back through the streets. The encounter with him—the man who had appeared so effortlessly at ease, so sure of himself—had unsettled her.
She arrived at her apartment, her hands shaking as she fumbled for her keys. The door opened with a soft click, and she stepped inside, the quiet of her apartment rushing to meet her.
She locked the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as the weight of the night settled over her. The brief encounter had left her with a strange, unfamiliar feeling, something like vulnerability and curiosity. What was that? she wondered. Why did he make me feel like that?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from Sora. She stared at it for a long moment, unsure whether to respond. Instead, she put the phone down and collapsed on the couch, the heaviness clung onto her chest.
For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel quite so alone in the world. There had been a crack, a shift in her carefully built isolation. And though it was small, it was real.