Chapter 12:

A Day Without Us

All Begins at the End

Morning filters in through muted skies, light barely brushing across the city’s broken skyline. There’s no sound but the occasional rustle of wind through half-shattered windows, and the distant groan of metal bending somewhere far away. A world still holding together by memory.

In Kotae’s apartment, time doesn’t feel real.

He wakes without an alarm — the ache behind his eyes is enough to pull him out of sleep. The silence greets him like an old friend. Familiar. Reliable. His body moves before his thoughts do — brushing teeth, washing his face, straightening the edges of the sheets he barely disturbed last night.

He doesn’t wonder if Kika slept.

He doesn't let himself.

The apartment is cold this morning. Or maybe he just notices it more. Kotae pulls on a hoodie, grabs a ration bar from the kitchen drawer, and eats without ceremony. Chewing is mechanical. It gives his hands something to do.

His eyes drift to the door.

Still closed. Still quiet on the other side.

He doesn’t expect her to knock.

But something in him... keeps listening anyway.

Kika doesn’t move for a long time.

She’s still curled in the same position she fell asleep in — wrapped in the blanket she barely remembers pulling over herself. Her face is puffy, eyes aching, throat raw. Not from illness. Just grief.

She stares at the wall across from her. It’s bare. Pale. The same color as the morning sky outside the window — indifferent.

"I didn’t mean it," she whispers to no one. Again.

Her hands tremble as they press against her face. Every word from last night replays in her head like a punishment she can’t escape. She hadn’t meant to threaten him. She hadn’t meant to imply that her patience had run out, that he was a burden, that she was measuring his healing on a clock.

But her feelings had gotten too loud. Her need to be seen, to be reached, to feel something from him — it all spilled over.

And now she’s here.

Alone.

Not because he abandoned her, but because she pushed. Just a little too hard.

"Stupid..." she murmurs, curling tighter.

Kotae spends most of the morning fixing the doorframe of the storage room. Something to do. Something quiet. The latch has been loose for weeks, but it never felt urgent.

Now it does.

He works slowly, methodically. Precision keeps the mind from wandering. But still, she creeps in.

The way her voice cracked.

The look on her face right before she ran.

He doesn't feel guilty. That would suggest he said something wrong. But he does feel… altered. Shifted, like something between them tore and now there’s a strange draft coming through.

He didn’t lie. He meant what he said.

And maybe that’s what makes this so difficult.

Because for all of Kika’s tears, for all the hurt in her voice… he doesn’t want to take any of it back.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Kika moves by midday, legs stiff and head heavy. She forces herself into the shower, standing beneath the warm water like it might wash away her mistakes. But it doesn’t. It only makes the ache settle deeper.

She changes into a long sweater and leggings, pulls her hair back, and stares at her reflection for a long time.

Her eyes are still swollen.

She looks tired. Small.

“Did I really say that to him?” she murmurs.

I’m done waiting.

The words echo like a knife.

She wasn’t. She isn’t. She’s never been done. She was just... scared. Afraid that her love wouldn’t be enough to reach him, that he would never let her fully in.

But love isn’t a lever you pull to open someone. And that’s the part she forgot in that moment. That her patience wasn’t a tool — it was a gift. One she gave freely. Until it hurt.

"I’m so sorry..." she says softly, even though he can’t hear her.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

She doesn’t know if he wants to hear her anymore.

By early afternoon, Kotae sits at the table, sketching out inventory on an old notepad. Supplies are still good. Water filters stable. Ration packs holding up.

Everything's fine.

Everything functions.

But the silence isn’t the same. It’s not peaceful the way it used to be. It has a weight to it now. Not crushing. Just heavier than before. Like a room that remembers what was said inside it.

He thinks about knocking on her door.

The idea comes and goes in a blink.

What would he even say?

He has no apology. He isn’t sure what comfort looks like from someone like him. And worse — he knows she doesn’t want hollow words. Kika has never been the kind of girl to settle for half-truths or gestures that mean nothing.

She wants real. She always has.

And real, for him, is walls.

Not because he wants them.

Because they’re all he’s ever known.

Kika spends the afternoon pacing.

Every time she sits, she gets back up again. Her thoughts won’t settle, and her chest won’t stop twisting.

She thinks about knocking on his door.

She pictures it a dozen times — what she’d say, how she’d start. Maybe she’d just hug him. Maybe she’d cry again. Maybe she’d whisper “I’m sorry” against his shoulder until he forgave her. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the door wouldn’t open at all.

Her hand touches the knob once.

She doesn’t turn it.

Not yet.

Because if he meant what he said — really meant it — then maybe he needs the space more than she needs to fill it.

And maybe love means giving that space, even when it kills you.

The sun dips low.

Kotae eats a quiet dinner. Something simple. Doesn’t taste like much. He eats it anyway.

The apartment darkens slowly, and he doesn’t turn the lights on for a long time. He just sits, watching the last orange streaks disappear.

He thinks about her again.

She’ll cry tonight. He knows it.

He hates that he knows it.

But what would it change if he went to her now, just to hold her, just to soothe?

He can’t promise change. He can’t promise healing. And if she’s waiting for him to become someone else — someone who can open up at will, someone who doesn't freeze up when words get too close to the truth — then maybe she’s still loving a version of him that doesn’t exist.

But a part of him… a small, traitorous part… wonders:

Would it really be so bad to knock?

Kika doesn’t eat much. A few crackers. Some dried fruit. She makes tea but forgets to drink it.

She stares out her window for most of the evening, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching as the world slowly dims.

She wants to believe he’s thinking about her. That he feels something, even if it’s buried.

Because she’s not ready to give up on him.

She just needed to feel like she mattered. That all the love she poured into him wasn’t disappearing into silence. That it was doing something.

She curls tighter on the bed, face buried in her hands.

"I’m still here," she whispers. "I still love you."

The light stays on.

Just in case.

Night deepens.