Chapter 5: Step Away

The café was quieter than usual that afternoon, the soft hum of music and the rustle of pages comforting as I sat curled in my corner chair with a book. Yoru had brought me a cup of tea, just the way I liked it, and I had been sipping it slowly, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.

I should have felt safe. I should have been able to lose myself in the words of the book in front of me. But then I heard it—the whispers.

At first, they were soft, indistinct, like the murmur of leaves in the wind. I froze, my chest tightening. A glance toward the door made my stomach drop.

Three students from school had entered. They spotted me immediately. Their eyes lit with something sharp, cruel, the kind of amusement that made my heart sink.

“Look who it is,” one of them said, smirking. “The lavender ghost.”

“The quiet one,” another added, leaning casually against the counter, scanning the café like it belonged to them.

I lowered my eyes, cheeks burning. My hands gripped the book so tightly I could feel the pages crumple under my fingers. Please, please don’t notice me. Please, let them go away.

But they didn’t.

They stepped closer. Their whispers grew sharper, their words edged with mockery. “Do you even know how to talk?” one sneered. “Or do you just hide in dresses all day?”

I wanted to shrink into myself. My throat felt tight. My bag felt like a lifeline in my hands, but it wasn’t enough. My knees trembled.

Then, the air shifted.

Yoru had stood from behind the counter, her movement quiet, controlled, but something about her presence made the whispers falter. She stepped toward the students. Calm, steady, and terrifyingly sure of herself.

“Step away.”

Her voice was soft, almost gentle—but there was a weight to it that made the café feel suddenly smaller, heavier. The whispers stopped mid-word. The students glanced at each other nervously, unease spreading across their faces. Yoru didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t yell. She didn’t need to.

“Step away from her,” she repeated, a little firmer this time, her dark eyes meeting theirs like steel.

It was enough.

The students muttered insults under their breath, but their bravado cracked. They stepped back, gave one last glance toward me—uncertain, intimidated—and then they left. The bell over the door jingled as they disappeared into the street outside.

I sat frozen, my heart pounding, my hands trembling so badly that I almost dropped the book. My chest heaved. I wanted to cry, to run, to hide under the table—but mostly, I wanted to curl into myself and disappear entirely.

Yoru knelt beside me, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You’re safe now.”

I blinked, swallowing hard. “Th-thank you…” My voice was barely audible, broken and fragile.

She smiled, small and reassuring, not prying, not asking questions, just…there. Just calm and steady. Her presence filled the space around me, and slowly, my trembling started to ease.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she whispered, as if she could read the fear I’d spent so many years carrying. “Not here. Not while I’m around.”

Her words were gentle, but they carried a certainty I had never felt before. For a moment, the weight of all those years—the mocking, the whispers, the isolation—felt lighter. I could breathe again.

I looked up at her, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, and I thought, I’ve never had anyone do that for me before.

She didn’t ask me to explain. She didn’t scold the students, call them names, or make a scene. She just protected me. Quietly. Firmly. Without hesitation.

And in that moment, I realized something dangerous: I had never felt so cared for. Not in school. Not at home. Not anywhere.

“Th-thank you, Yoru,” I whispered again, my voice steadier this time.

She ruffled my hair lightly, a playful gesture that made me want to smile despite my nerves. “Anytime,” she said softly.

I wanted to tell her everything—how lonely I felt, how invisible I usually was, how scared I’d been every day before—but I didn’t. I didn’t need to. Just being near her, just knowing she was there, was enough.

For the first time in a long time, I felt…seen.

And maybe, I thought as I hugged my tea cup to my chest, maybe being noticed wasn’t so scary after all.