The Shape of Comfort

Haru wasn’t sure when being at school stopped feeling heavy.

It didn’t happen all at once. There was no clear moment where everything suddenly became easier. Instead, it was small things—things he only noticed when he looked back on them.

Like how he no longer counted the number of people between him and the door.

Or how he no longer rehearsed responses in advance before someone spoke to him.

Mio sat near him again during class. Not close enough to crowd him. Just close enough that he could see her clearly if he needed to. She faced him when she talked. She slowed her words naturally, without exaggeration.

She made it look effortless.

Haru found himself relaxing around her in ways he hadn’t realized he’d been holding back.

When someone asked him a question and he missed part of it, Mio repeated it softly, meeting his eyes. No sighs. No impatience.

Just patience.

At lunch, she handed him a napkin when his sauce spilled.

“Thanks,” he said.

She smiled, small and easy. “Sure.”

The exchange lasted only a second—but it stayed with him all afternoon.

On the walk home, Haru noticed something unsettling.

He was looking forward to seeing her again tomorrow.

The thought startled him.

He stopped in his tracks, staring at the pavement.

That’s dangerous, he thought.

Expectations had a way of hurting people like him.

Still, when he reached home and sat on his bed, he found himself replaying the day.

Mio’s smile.

Her careful attention.

The way she made space without making him feel small.

Haru exhaled slowly.

Whatever this feeling was, it felt… safe.

And that alone was new.