The weather turned gray the next morning.
Not the romantic kind of gray that poets write about—no soft melancholy, no gentle drizzle.
This was a heavy gray.
Low clouds hung like unspoken thoughts, and the air felt damp before the first raindrop fell. Even Tokyo's usual energy seemed muted, as though the entire city had hit snooze but still forced itself out of bed.
Roastery Gekkō opened like it always did—warm lights, faint jazz, and the scent of roasted beans drifting into the sidewalk.
Riku was behind the counter before the first rush. He cleaned the same table three times, even though it wasn't dirty.
He kept glancing at the door.
Sakura didn't come.
She didn't text.
Didn't cancel.
Didn't appear in the corner of his vision like the quiet breeze he'd grown so used to sensing even before she entered.
The silence, today, wasn't peaceful. It was hollow.
And the seat in the corner—the one by the window, the one marked by a star on his dream layout—remained untouched.
Empty.
Lonely.
Even with the café full, it felt like something was missing. Like the music was off-key. Like the world was breathing unevenly.
Every time the door opened and the bell chimed, his chest lifted for a second.
And every time, it sank again.
By mid-morning, it felt like he'd lost something he hadn't meant to hold onto in the first place.
---
Across town, Sakura sat at her desk with her knees pulled up beneath her oversized hoodie, surrounded by an accidental fortress of printed notes, open books, and a half-eaten pastry that had gone cold hours ago.
The cursor blinked at her on the tablet screen.
Mocking her.
She couldn't concentrate.
She'd told herself it was midterm pressure. Told herself she needed space. Told herself that silence was necessary to make sense of her feelings.
But it wasn't space she needed.
It was him.
Or rather, the strange calm that had started following her home after every latte. The way her world had subtly realigned around Roastery Gekkō's dim lighting and jazz and Riku's crooked smiles.
And that floor plan—his dream café.
With her table marked by a star.
People didn't put her in their plans.
She was the addendum. The efficient extra. The backup.
Being central—being seen—it terrified her more than she wanted to admit.
So she stayed away.
Just to see if she would be missed.
And at 10:03 a.m., her phone buzzed.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from being missed.
____________•••____________
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
She locked it.
Then unlocked it again.
Then finally set it down like it had asked a question she wasn't ready to answer.
---
Back at Gekkō, Riku stepped into the backroom, handing the counter to Ayumu, who was blissfully unaware of how much silence could weigh.
He slumped onto the concrete step behind the kitchen, next to the crate of milk jugs and old syrup boxes. Cold air leaked through the window. He could hear the hum of traffic, the faint crackle of rain beginning outside.
He wanted to text her.
He didn't know what to say.
("Are you okay?") ..... Too intimate.
("Coming today?") ... Too exposed.
("I miss you.") ..... Too much.
So instead, he stared at his phone in frustration.
And then it buzzed.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from wondering if it meant something to her too.
____________•••____________
He let out a dry, half-laugh—no joy in it.
Of course he was wondering.
Of course he'd built meaning from every shared sip and glance.
Of course he'd started to hope.
He was always the one who fell first.
---
It wasn't until dusk that she returned.
The café had emptied out. The lights were dimmed to evening tones, and the jazz had faded into something softer—more ambient piano than trumpet.
The door opened, bell chiming gently.
And there she was.
Wearing the same pale-blue hoodie from yesterday, scarf barely wrapped, boots speckled with rain. Her hair was damp at the tips. Her face unreadable.
Riku turned mid-cleanup.
Time slowed, just slightly.
He didn't say anything at first.
Neither did she.
"I'm late," Sakura said finally, voice quiet, almost unsure.
He shook his head.
"You're here."
She didn't smile. Didn't make small talk. Didn't tease.
She walked to her seat—her seat—and sat without a word.
He brought her latte without asking.
No heart in the foam today.
Just clean crema, quiet steam.
She took the cup in both hands, as if grounding herself.
"I got scared," she said, breaking the silence.
He stopped. Watched.
"I'm not used to being… part of someone else's plan," she added. "It's easier being background. Easier not to be… chosen."
Her voice was steady, but something behind it wasn't.
"I thought I should pull away," she said. "Just to see if this… if you were real. If I mattered."
He sat across from her.
No apron. No pretense.
"And do you believe it now?" he asked, carefully.
"I still don't know," she replied, eyes lowering to the cup between her hands. "But I missed the quiet here. The music. The foam art I pretend not to notice."
A pause.
"And… you."
His breath caught.
She didn't look up.
She didn't have to.
Because her being here—despite the fear, despite the silence—that was more honest than anything she could've said.
He reached forward, gently pulled her cup closer, and adjusted the sleeve.
She blinked.
"There," he said. "Your lid wasn't on straight."
That earned a tiny sound from her—a breath of laughter. Quick, barely there.
But real.
---
They didn't talk much after that.
They didn't need to.
The shop closed around them.
Outside, the rain picked up again, drumming gently on the glass. Inside, two lattes cooled slowly on the table.
They stayed until the lights dimmed fully.
Until steam stopped rising.
Until silence, once again, felt like something they shared.
---
That night, Sakura lay in bed, the folded café layout resting next to her pillow like a postcard from a different version of her life.
The phone buzzed.
She didn't check it right away.
But eventually, curiosity won.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from saying what you're not ready to hear.
____________•••____________
She stared at the message.
Then whispered to the dark:
"I think I already know."
And finally, for the first time in days, she slept soundly.