Chapter 5: And Then, Nothing Again (II)

By 4:30 PM, I was at my usual after-school getaway again. It wasn't as casual as going to school clubs or being with friends sipping ramen or singing in karaoke bars, no, it was the routine I've been in for years.

Shimizu's Mitarashi Dango Castle.

And the red-haired prince residing behind it was turning sticks, basting glaze and breathing steam.

And across the walkway—there she was.

The golden porcupine on the auburn camphor kingdom.

Same spot, same posture, same sketchpad on her knees and eyes flicking across her careful strokes like the world was made of lines and shadows.

Everything was back in its proper place—the same strangers from ten meters across.

At least, it looked that way.

But now I knew the illusion.

I knew what her hands looked like wet with miso steam.

I knew what she looked like in my dim apartment.

I knew her grace from our witty exchanges that will make an average person's brain spill from their ears.

I knew that she puts more salt in meals than usual.

And more than that, I knew how stubborn she was when she ignored Nakabeni-sensei.

This routine went on for three more days.

Class. Lunch. Review. Bench. Stall.

Neither of us spoke.

Neither of us dared to.

Not until the fourth afternoon.

Today, that silence cracked.

I didn’t notice her right away.

Not when she stood. Not when she crossed the path and stepped on our five meter exclusion zone.

I was serving two office workers and a mom with a stroller with my carefully built facade when the unthinkable happened.

Kousaka-san was standing in front of my empire.

I nearly toppled over the tray by the bombshell she threw at me, but I quickly masked the surprise by adjusting the fire, basting the next batch, avoiding eye contact like it was radioactive. I fumbled with everything superficial just to pretend I didn't notice her presence.

I was at a loss for words, heart beating rapidly and beads of sweat forming in my temple.

“Why is she here?!” I asked myself.

But not even my apron could cover my ridiculousness.

Kousaka-san will not leave.

She's here for a reason.

Following my invisible script, I put up a smile that can melt glaciers despite the turmoil running inside me.

"Good afternoon!" I spat on a shaking voice. "We have Mitarashi, Hanami and Kinako on the menu today."

She didn’t say anything at first, and her blue daggers disguised as eyes were boring holes in the professionalism I made up.

Then, slowly—she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a 500-yen coin, and dropped it into the tray.

The sound was small.

But in my world, it thundered.

"One mitarashi," she said simply.

I looked down at the stove. Not directly at her, just enough to confirm she wasn’t joking.

Kousaka-san wasn’t.

She looked straight ahead—not at me, not at the stall, but somewhere else. Like this moment was just a detour she allowed herself to take.

Still, I moved.

I carefully grabbed a stick from the freshest batch, then turned it once more over the heat.

Reheating relied on the customer's option, but I forced it—I needed space to collect my thoughts.

Was this a prank? A power move?

Or was it…

I handed her the skewer with my pretentious smile unwavering.

“It’s free,” I said.

“No,” she replied flatly. “It’s not.”

"Wait up, I'm computing your change—"

"No need."

My smile flattened by a fraction for a second, one eye twitching.

Tips are taboo in this country, but knowing that the hellhole she came from probably gifted her the polar opposites of bluntness and generosity, I let it slip today.

“…Thanks,” I said after a beat, handing her the still-warm stick.

Our fingers didn’t touch.

But they almost did.

She took it with the same care she held her sketchpad. Like it might crumble under pressure. Like it was more than just flour and glaze on a stick.

Then she turned, walked back across the park, and sat on the bench again.

Back to routine. Back to the 10 meters that felt like a gorge.

But this time, the sketchpad didn’t open right away.

Instead, she unwrapped the 120-yen dango stick with a kind of hesitant grace.

Has she eaten it before? Because she certainly doesn't know how to properly do it.

I watched her from under the pretense of cleaning the grill.

She bit into the first dango ball slowly, like she was tasting it on a molecular level.

I could see it even from ten meters away.

Then she looked down at it, brows furrowing slightly—not in displeasure, but confusion. It was the kind that you can see in people that are experiencing something different from what they are expecting.

Kousaka-san was unsure about what she was feeling.

And neither could I.

I kept wiping the already-clean surface, my heart raging from my chest from anxiety.

She caught my glance mid-chew, and I almost threw my rug while I crouched on reflex.

I recovered instantly, but I can feel that she's still staring not at the stall, but at me.

This time I realized that I badly wanted a crowd of customers around my stall in order to shield me from the intensity and rawness of the situation.

"One Kinako please."

OH! FINALLY!

"What? Is there something wrong with me?"

A highschooler wearing a different uniform was looking at me in confusion.

...I think I said my thoughts out loud.

I quickly handed him the roast, computed change, said thanks, and smiled as he walked away.

Machine-like efficiency.

And Kousaka-san already dropped her gaze at the sketchpad, and the charcoal pencil in her hand sliding once more on the thick paper.

...And just like that, the routine resumed.

While we never spoke again that afternoon, the distance between us was no longer empty. We already crossed it, from the first rain, and today.

She just ate.

Sketched.

Stayed until 8:00.

And when she stood to leave, she didn’t look back.

But the wrapper from the dango? She folded it neatly and tucked it into the inside pocket of her sketchbook as if something to keep for a little longer.

And that made me smile, at the very least. That's the best thing that happened today.

I didn’t say goodbye. She wouldn’t have answered anyway.

But my hand hovered just briefly in a silent wave—one that never left my pocket.

There's still a lot of people roaming so I stayed for another 45 minutes.

Her figure might have disappeared past the curve of the park path, but a single thought lingered in the quiet:

She bought one.

Kousaka Akari was finally a customer.