The Receipt Collector

The automatic doors chimed as I stepped in, my reflection flashing across the glass before vanishing under the lights.

Another after-school shift. Another slow evening at the store.

Miyu was already behind the counter, her hair tied up in the usual neat ponytail. She glanced at me over the register. “You’re two minutes early. Miraculous.”

“I aim to impress,” I said, hanging up my bag.

“Then try aiming higher,” she replied without missing a beat, scanning a customer’s onigiri.

She looked the same as always—calm, composed, completely unbothered by my existence. And yet, the air between us had changed lately. We’d started to talk more during shifts, small jokes slipping between transactions. Not exactly friends, but… something close enough, I think.

As I pulled on my apron, the rhythm of the store surrounded me—the soft beep of scanners, the buzz of refrigerators, the faint hum of pop music. Normal. Ordinary.

It started with a sound.

The clatter of something small hitting the counter.

“...What’s this?” Miyu asked, eyebrow raised.

I froze. A handful of receipts had fallen out of my wallet while I was pulling out my employee ID.

“Ah—that’s nothing,” I said too quickly, reaching for them.

She got there first, fanning the slips like evidence. “You’ve been keeping every receipt from the store?”

“They’re... souvenirs.”

She blinked. “Souvenirs. Of people buying cup noodles.”

I scratched my cheek. “Okay, that sounds dumb when you say it out loud.”

She skimmed the faded print on one. “This one’s from last month. 3:42 p.m. — one canned coffee, one melon bread. You’re not secretly auditing us, are you?”

“No, I just” I hesitated. “I guess I like remembering stuff. Little things.”

Her teasing expression softened, if only for a second. “You’re weird, Ryota Aizawa.”

I gave a half-shrug. “Takes one to notice one, Miyu Takahashi.”

That earned me a faint smirk—the kind she tried to hide behind her deadpan tone. But then, as she turned to ring up another customer, she quietly slipped one of the receipts into her pocket.

I noticed. I pretended not to.

Later, during our break, Miyu leaned against the counter, sipping her bottled tea. “Manager Sato said he’s running late. Again.”

I slumped beside her. “So we’re basically managing the store ourselves.”

“You say that like it’s new.”

Outside, the orange light of sunset poured through the glass, stretching our shadows across the floor. The store had gone quiet—that rare, golden lull before the after-dinner rush.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, her voice softer. “Why do you really keep them?”

“The receipts?”

“Yeah. I can’t imagine your wallet surviving this long without collapsing.”

I thought about it for a second. “Because every day’s different, I guess. Even if it doesn’t look like it.”

She tilted her head, curious.

“Like, you can’t tell when something important happens. So I keep little things. Just in case one of them turns out to matter later.”

She blinked at me, the corners of her lips curving ever so slightly. “That’s… unexpectedly poetic for a guy who once spilled instant noodles on the floor.”

“I contain multitudes,” I said solemnly.

She snorted into her tea. “Sure you do.”

The door chime interrupted us. A small boy—Kota—ran in, clutching coins in both hands. “Ryota-oniichan! Miyu-neesan! Do you guys have superhero stickers?”

Miyu froze like a startled cat. “Again?”

I crouched down. “You’re back already? Didn’t you buy all of them two days ago?”

He pouted. “I need the rare one! The golden captain!”

Miyu sighed, muttering under her breath, “He’s going to dismantle the store one day.”As Kota darted between aisles, Miyu followed to supervise, her “I’m not smiling” face barely hiding amusement. Watching them, I realized how easily she shifted between her cool work mode and these softer moments.

When Kota finally paid for his stickers (and a candy bar he definitely wasn’t supposed to buy), he waved and ran out. Miyu watched him go, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re good with kids,” I said.

She blinked. “I just stop them from breaking things.”

“I mean, that counts.”

The store emptied again. I was restocking bottled drinks when I felt Miyu beside me.

“Here.” She handed me a can of coffee from the cooler.

“Is this a bribe or a trap?”

“Neither,” she said, smirking. “Consider it your reward for not breaking anything today.”

I popped it open. The faint hiss filled the silence. “You’re surprisingly generous today.”

“Don’t get used to it.” She hesitated, then added, “Also… you can stop worrying about your receipts. I won’t tell anyone about your weird hobby.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Appreciate the discretion.”

She turned to leave but paused. “...You should keep doing it.”

“Huh?”

“The receipt thing,” she said without looking back. “If it makes the ordinary feel special, then it’s worth it.”

The way she said it—calm, sincere, just loud enough to hear—left a small warmth in my chest.

Our shift ended, the streets were quiet as we walked outside, and the neon sign buzzed softly.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, tucking her hands into her pockets.

“Yeah. Same time, same thing.”

As she turned to leave, something fluttered to the ground near my foot. A small piece of paper.

I picked it up. A receipt—from earlier today.

On the back, in neat handwriting:

“For the guy who notices the little things.”

I looked up, but she was already halfway down the street, her ponytail swaying under the streetlight.

I folded the slip carefully into my wallet, right beside the others.

And for the first time, I realized maybe I wasn’t collecting moments—

Maybe I was collecting proof that they meant something.