The café was crowded, a gentle hum of conversations floating through the air, though Ayumi Tanaka could only feel it — the subtle vibrations underfoot, the slight tremble of the air as people moved around her. It was a familiar setting, one she'd visited dozens of times between classes, but today, the gentle rhythm of her routine broke.
The door chimed. A small detail most wouldn't notice, but Ayumi always glanced up when the door opened — one of the many habits she'd picked up in a world that didn't always announce itself to her. This time, the person stepping inside wasn't one of the usual faces she half-recognized. Instead, it was someone… new.
He was tall, slightly hunched under the café's low beams, his dark hair tousled by the late autumn wind. A backpack hung loosely off one shoulder, and there was something about the way his eyes darted around — curious but not intrusive — that made Ayumi pause. She couldn't hear his voice, but when he smiled briefly at the barista, the corners of his mouth quirked unevenly, and something about that small imperfection felt… human. Comforting.
She turned back to her notebook, where her fingers traced the loops of the kanji she was practicing. Her handwriting was small, almost shy on the page. There was comfort in these quiet moments, even in a place filled with noise she couldn't hear.
A sudden jolt snapped her out of her thoughts. Her pencil case, resting too close to the edge of the table, tumbled to the floor with a soft clatter she couldn't hear but could feel through her chair. Pens scattered in every direction.
Ayumi scrambled to gather them, her movements quick and awkward, fingers brushing the floor. Before she could reach for the last pen, a larger hand appeared, picking it up with ease.
She froze.
It was him — the boy from the door.
He knelt beside her, his expression open and friendly, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, as if he wasn't sure how to proceed. Ayumi's gaze flicked up to meet his for the briefest second before dropping back down to her scattered pens.
"Here," he said.
The word was simple, and even though she couldn't hear it, she read it easily on his lips. She nodded quickly, accepting the pen with a small bow of her head. Most people would leave it at that — an exchange, a brief brush of kindness before they moved on.
But not him.
He hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then — with an awkwardness so sincere it made Ayumi's stomach flip — he raised his hands.
Sign language.
Or at least, what was probably meant to be sign language. His fingers formed clumsy shapes, his gestures hesitant and uncertain, but the effort was undeniable.
Hi, I… help?
The grammar was wrong. The fingerspelling was off. But Ayumi understood.
She blinked, momentarily stunned. Most people, even when they knew she was deaf, either ignored it or exaggerated their speech, assuming louder meant clearer. Very few even tried to cross the bridge to her world. And certainly not cute strangers in campus cafés.
Her hands hovered uncertainly before she raised them to respond.
Thank you.
It was small, but his face lit up as if she'd handed him a gift.
"I'm Kaito," he said aloud, and though the words were spoken, he also fingerspelled them — slowly, awkwardly, but with so much concentration she couldn't help but smile.
Ayumi, she signed back.
Their names floated between them, unspoken yet fully understood.
A small cough from behind made them both jolt. Emi Saito, Ayumi's best friend and self-appointed guardian, stood with her hands on her hips, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Well, well," Emi said, deliberately exaggerating her words so Ayumi could read her lips. "Making new friends, Ayu?"
Ayumi's cheeks burned as she shook her head quickly, fingers flying in a flurry of embarrassed denial. He was just helping.
Kaito, to his credit, didn't retreat. Instead, he gave a small bow to Emi, the polite formality of someone still navigating new cultural waters.
"You know sign language?" Emi asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Learning," Kaito said, his Japanese accented but clear enough. "Trying, at least."
Emi's eyebrows rose. "For a girl you just met? Bold."
Ayumi buried her face in her hands.
"Sorry," Kaito said, scratching the back of his neck. "I've… been trying to learn since I got here. Thought it might help."
There was more to that story, Ayumi sensed — a reason why he, an exchange student barely settled into life in Japan, would pick up sign language. But she wasn't sure how to ask.
Instead, she offered a small smile, the kind that rarely made its way past her polite public mask.
You're doing well.
His answering grin was wide and boyish, filled with relief and the pride of someone who'd just cleared a hurdle they weren't sure they could manage.
"Thanks," he said, speaking and fingerspelling at once — a habit Ayumi could already tell would become endearing.
Their conversation might have ended there, a brief intersection of lives on a rainy afternoon. But fate, or perhaps Emi's relentless curiosity, had other plans.
"Since you're learning," Emi said cheerfully, "why don't you join us for lunch?"
Ayumi's eyes widened, her silent protest drowned by Emi's enthusiasm.
"Really?" Kaito's expression brightened. "If that's okay?"
Emi elbowed Ayumi gently. "What do you say, Ayu?"
There was no polite way to refuse without seeming rude, and besides… there was something about Kaito's awkward earnestness that made her want to know more.
Okay, she signed.
And just like that, her quiet world shifted.
—
They found a table near the window, where the rain traced delicate patterns against the glass. Emi filled most of the silence, effortlessly translating between spoken words and signs, her hands moving with the ease of someone who had been Ayumi's voice for years.
But Kaito didn't rely entirely on Emi. He watched Ayumi closely, sometimes mimicking her gestures, sometimes fumbling through fingerspelling with apologetic determination. His mistakes were frequent, but so was his laughter — at himself, at the absurdity of it all, at the way communication could be both so simple and so endlessly complicated.
Over bowls of steaming ramen, Ayumi learned that Kaito was studying linguistics — his fascination with languages sparked by growing up between Japanese and English-speaking cultures. He'd lived in Vancouver, then Tokyo, then back to Toronto, and now, for reasons even he couldn't fully explain, he'd chosen a university in Japan for his exchange.
"I like learning how people talk," he said. "Or… don't talk."
His gaze flicked to her for only a second, but the weight of it lingered.
After lunch, when Emi left for her part-time job, Ayumi found herself alone with Kaito once more. They walked together in the drizzle, the rain soft against her skin. It was comfortable — the silence between them not awkward, but full of potential.
Kaito paused at the campus gates, hesitating before raising his hands again.
Can we meet again?
The signs were halting, but clear enough.
Ayumi's heart skipped, but her hands answered before her mind caught up.
Okay.
His smile could have lit the whole sky.
—
That night, lying in her dorm room with the rain tapping gently against the window, Ayumi replayed their meeting over and over. There was something different about Kaito — not just his kindness, but his determination to reach her, to understand a language most people didn't bother learning.
And for the first time in a long while, Ayumi felt something she hadn't dared to hope for.
The faintest whisper of possibility.