Promises

Thursday arrived.

Takumi had spent the whole day in a kind of nervous anticipation he refused to analyze.

At exactly 3:00 p.m., the doorbell rang.

He took a slow breath, smoothed his sweater, and went to open the door.

Ayaka stood on the threshold, offering a shy smile. She wore a cream-colored oversized sweater and simple jeans. No heavy makeup. Her hair was loose, falling naturally around her shoulders.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“Hey. Come in.”

The familiar ritual followed — shoes off, guest slippers on, walk to the living room. But today, every gesture felt heightened, conscious.

Takumi poured tea into two cups, trying to ignore the faint tremor in his hands.

He handed one to Ayaka.

Their fingers brushed.

Just for a second. A brief, accidental touch.

Takumi pulled his hand back too quickly, nearly spilling his own tea as he set it down.

Ayaka looked down, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

Silence followed — not the comfortable kind. Charged. Electric.

Takumi cleared his throat. “So. How was your week?”

Ayaka twirled a lock of hair around her finger — a nervous habit he couldn’t help but notice.

“Busy. Photoshoot, interview, recording for a commercial jingle.” She gave a faint smile. “The usual.”

“Are you holding up?”

“Better than before.” Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Thanks to… you.”

Something about the way she said you made Takumi’s heartbeat quicken.

Ayaka took a small sip of tea, gathering courage.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course.”

She bit her lip. “How… how did you know? That your wife was the one?”

Takumi froze, cup halfway to his lips.

That wasn’t a casual question. Not one he’d prepared for.
It was heavy — with meaning, with risk.

He set the cup down and took his time before answering.

“It wasn’t love at first sight,” he said.

His gaze drifted to the photo on the shelf — Naomi holding baby Hana, both smiling with that unfiltered joy that used to fill the house.

“We met at university. She studied literature; I studied business. We had nothing in common.” He gave a small nostalgic smile.

Ayaka listened intently, her untouched cup growing cold between her hands.

“One day, we ended up at the same café. She was buried in her book; I was ranting to my classmates — arrogant, ambitious, trying to fix the world while judging everyone I thought was beneath me.”

She called me a pompous idiot.

“Charming first encounter,” Ayaka murmured, amused.

“It got worse,” Takumi said, chuckling softly. “I told her literature was a waste of time, that it would never pay the bills, that she’d end up a failure. She looked me dead in the eye and told me I had an empty life and no real happiness. Said she pitied my future.”

Ayaka’s eyes widened slightly.

“I completely lost it,” Takumi admitted. “We traded every insult imaginable. She called me a soulless capitalist robot. I called her a naïve idealist.”

“And after that?”

“After that… I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said.” He folded his hands on his knees. “For weeks. Because, deep down, she was right. I studied nonstop, had no friends, no hobbies — nothing. Just empty ambition.”

He paused.

“So I went back to that café. She was there again. I sat down across from her and said: Teach me.”

Ayaka blinked. “Teach you?”

“‘Teach me how to live. How to have a life that isn’t empty.’” He smiled faintly. “She laughed. Said it was the strangest request she’d ever heard. But she agreed.”

“And then?”

“Then she took me to museums, street concerts, night markets. Made me read poetry. Watch arthouse films. Cook.” His voice softened. “She taught me how to live.”

Ayaka felt her throat tighten.

“I didn’t realize when I fell in love with her,” he continued. “It just… built itself. Day by day.”

Silence fell again.

Then Ayaka asked, barely above a whisper:
“Do you think you could… love someone else? One day?”

Takumi’s heart skipped.

The question hung in the air like an unspoken confession.

He could have deflected. Pretended not to understand. But he was tired of half-truths.

“Naomi made me promise something,” he said slowly. “Near the end.”

***

The memory came, sharp and cruel.

The smell of disinfectant. Naomi in the medical bed at their apartment — suddenly so small, so fragile.

The doctors had said she had weeks left. Maybe a month if they were lucky.

Takumi sat beside her, holding her hand — the same hand that had held his so many times, now so thin he feared breaking it.

“Promise me something,” she had whispered, voice weak but unwavering.

“Promise me you won’t be afraid.” Her eyes — still bright despite the illness — locked on his. “You’re free to fall in love again. To start over. To live.”

Takumi had shaken his head, tears blurring his vision.
“I can’t. I’ll never be able to—”

“You can. You must.” She smiled — that same smile that had once melted him. “For you. And especially for Hana. She deserves to grow up in a home filled with love, not grief.”

“But you—”

“I’ll always be here.” She pressed his hand to his chest. “Here. But that doesn’t mean you have to stay alone. Promise me.”

He had promised.

Through the tears, through the pain, through denial — he had promised.

Three weeks later, she was gone.

***

“She wanted me to be happy,” Takumi said now, voice low. “To think about my own happiness… and Hana’s.”

Ayaka’s eyes shimmered.

“So… do you think you could?”

He looked straight at her.

This woman who had walked into his home a few weeks ago — exhausted, broken — and now smiled while cooking dorayaki. Who listened to Hana with endless patience. Who laughed without worrying about cameras or image.

“I think it’s possible,” he said carefully.

It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

Ayaka’s cheeks turned crimson. She looked away, fidgeting with her hair.

“I—”

The front door opened abruptly.

“Tadaima~!”

The fragile, suspended moment shattered like glass.

Takumi stood up quickly — too quickly.
“Welcome back.”

Hana burst into the room, face lighting up at the sight of Ayaka.

“Ayaka-san! You’re here!”

“Hey, Hana-chan.” Ayaka smiled, discreetly wiping her eyes. “How was school?”

Hana climbed onto the couch beside her, pulling wrinkled drawings from her bag.

The next hour was lighthearted — Hana recounting her day in great detail, Ayaka asking questions, Takumi serving fresh tea and cut fruit.

A routine that was beginning to feel dangerously close to something familial.

When 5:30 p.m. came, Ayaka began gathering her things.
“I should go. I have a—”

“Ayaka-san!” Hana interrupted suddenly, grabbing her hand. “Can you stay tonight? For dinner? And sleep over?”

The silence hit like a bomb.

Takumi froze mid-step toward the kitchen.

Ayaka opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“Hana—” Takumi started.

“Please!” Hana begged, clutching Ayaka’s hand. “We can watch a movie! And Papa can make okonomiyaki! And I have lots of drawings to show you!”

Ayaka looked at Takumi, visibly flustered.

So was he.

Part of him — a big part — wanted to say yes. Wanted her to stay. Wanted to prolong this fragile illusion of family, of belonging.

But the other part — the rational, cautious one — knew it was dangerous.

For Hana. For Ayaka. For himself.

“Hana,” he said gently, approaching. “Ayaka-san has a life. Responsibilities. We can’t impose—”

“Yes,” Ayaka murmured softly. “I have… responsibilities.”

Something flickered in her eyes as she said the word — something that looked like resignation.

Hana lowered her head, disappointed but accepting.

“I understand.”

Ayaka squeezed her hand gently.
“Another time, okay? When I have more free time?”

Hana nodded eagerly. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

***

Takumi walked Ayaka to the door.

The sun was setting, bathing the quiet street in golden light.

“Sorry about Hana,” he said. “She gets attached easily.”

“Don’t apologize.” Ayaka smiled faintly. “It’s… sweet. She’s sweet.”

She looked up at him.

Their eyes met — too long to be innocent, not long enough to be a confession.

“I really should go,” she said finally, her voice a little shaky.

“See you next Thursday.”

She walked down the path, turned once — as she always did — and waved.

Takumi raised his hand in return.

Then she turned the corner and disappeared.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the empty street.

Inside, Hana waited in the living room.

“Papa, you like Ayaka-san, don’t you? Like Mama?”

Takumi nearly tripped over his own feet.
“Hana, that’s—”

She smiled — too perceptive for her age. “You look at her the same way you looked at Mama in the pictures.”

Takumi sank onto the couch, exhausted.
“It’s… complicated.”

“Why?”

Good question.

So many reasons.

But looking at his daughter’s open, innocent eyes, they suddenly felt less convincing.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

Hana nestled against him.

“I like her. She’s nice. And she makes our house feel less empty.”

Less empty.

Those words again.

Takumi wrapped his arm around her, holding her close.

“So do I,” he murmured. “So do I.”