Michiko wavered on whether to reach out again. Each morning she debated it, yet refrained. Instead, she buried herself in work—assignments, photo edits, project outlines—desperately trying to fill every moment of pause with tasks to quell her rambling thoughts. Initially, it seemed to work. The guise of productivity provided her a familiar refuge, one she clung to for comfort. Her sleep even improved slightly, if only for a few nights.
Still, beneath her forced calm, she was uneasy. Ji hadn't reached out. No messages, no phone calls, no attempts to bridge the gap. Radio silence. It was deafening, too complete to ignore. Each time her phone had a notification, Michiko found herself torn—each vibration a mix of anxiety, anticipation, disappointment, and relief.
By Friday, the tension had manifested into physical pain. It was almost a gift when Fumi appeared unannounced, all strawberry gloss and manicured nails, leaning through the doorway with an exaggerated pout.
"Look at me, being a good friend," Fumi said airily, stepping inside without waiting for permission.
Michiko raised an eyebrow, allowing herself a faint smile. "Weren't you busy being someone's perfect girlfriend?"
Fumi groaned dramatically, collapsing onto Michiko's bed. "Even perfect girlfriends need breaks. Boys are exhausting."
"Tell me something new," Michiko quipped dryly.
Fumi glanced over at her, eyes narrowing slightly. "You've been suspiciously off the grid lately."
Michiko shrugged uncomfortably, averting her stare. "I've just been busy."
Fumi's voice softened, losing its teasing tone. "Busy avoiding a certain bartender?"
Michiko scoffed, deflecting easily. "Please. That's over."
Fumi hesitated noticeably, her cheerful demeanor fading just a bit. She toyed with the pillow fringe, voice gingerly. "You know, you act like nothing gets to you, Michi-chan—but something about her feels... off."
Michiko stilled. "What do you mean?"
Fumi sighed, eyes wary. "I barely spoke to her, I know. But sometimes you don't need long conversations to sense something. It's just... a gut feeling."
The hidden gravity in Fumi's voice perturbed Michiko. A brief silence spread between them awkwardly.
"Just promise me you'll be careful," Fumi added. "You deserve someone who respects your space."
Michiko nodded slowly, her throat dry. "Thanks, Fumi."
After Fumi left, Michiko paced her room restlessly. She finally found the note Ji had originally left, still neatly folded and smugly confident.
"Last night was lovely. Text me if you want a round two. – Ji
-XXX-XXX-XXXX"
She glared at the handwriting, discomfort brewing within her, before ripping it apart into two, four, six precise shreds. This time, there was no second guessing, as she hurled them into the trash with finality. Sunday afternoon was supposed to be a sanctuary of focused solitude. Michiko ensconced herself in a quiet café, craving peace, the bite of bitter coffee, and a refuge from her thoughts.
Yet, as she meticulously edited a series of street photographs, a familiar, unsettling sensation crawled up her spine—a silent, primal warning. Her head snapped up, her breath catching in her throat.
There, across the room, Ji stood in line, an arresting presence in a black windbreaker and dark beanie, exuding a casual yet undeniable allure. Their eyes momentarily met Michiko's, a small, knowing smile playing on their lips like a secret shared.
With a pounding heart, Michiko forced herself to break eye contact, feigning deep concentration on her work. Ji didn't come closer, didn't make a sound. Yet, as they glided past her table, the air between them seemed dense, thick with the weight of unsaid words.
Michiko resisted the urge to look again, but Ji's presence lingered, an indelible mark that refused to fade long after they left the café.
Later, at home, Michiko brewed tea she couldn't bring herself to drink, her eyes glued to her phone, heart sinking with each moment it stayed silent. She retreated to bed early, trying in vain to lose herself in a book, the words dissolving into a blur beneath the relentless tide of anxious thoughts.
Then—
Knock knock.
Faint, but unmistakable. Two precise taps.
Michiko showed visible confusion. She wasn't expecting any delivery and it was too late for Fumi to be visiting. After a second of debate, she rose cautiously, moving her way to the door as irrational scenarios kept popping her head. She waited, counting each second like a ticking bomb, to see if there would be a follow up knock.
Nothing.
Finally, mustering every ounce of bravery, she slowly turned the doorknob. The hallway stretched out before her, stark and empty. But there, on the floor, lay a small, folded slip of paper. No markings or signature, just Ji's handwriting inside:
"You shouldn't disappear when things are getting good."
Her fingers trembled as they clutched the note, gripping it as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat in reality. She didn't discard it. She held onto it tightly—solid proof in her hands, a chilling confirmation that her doubt was not mere paranoia. She was being watched by someone who had no intention of letting her fade into oblivion without a trace.