Between Morning and Evening

Hirito didn’t wake up right away.

At first, there were sounds. Quiet, not loud — more persistent than anything else, as if a conversation was seeping through the wall without caring whether anyone could hear it. The voices didn’t rise, didn’t break into shouting, and that made them heavier somehow. People who shout often aren’t sure of themselves. Those who speak quietly usually already know what they’ve decided.

“We won’t make it like this,” one voice said. Calm. Emotionless. “I’ve already checked.”

“You’re counting time,” the other replied. Slightly sharper, but still controlled. “I’m thinking about why we’re doing this in the first place.”

Hirito opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. Morning light slipped through the curtains — soft and uncertain, as if the day itself hadn’t fully begun yet. He turned onto his side and muttered,

“So that’s what’s going on… first thing in the morning.”

After a moment, he got out of bed and walked toward the door.

“If we don’t simplify it now,” the first voice continued, “it’ll be too late later.”

“And if we simplify it,” the second answered, “we might realize we’ve ruined it.”

A pause followed. Longer than needed for breath. Someone was holding back.

“I’m not making something empty,” the second voice said.

“And I’m not making something we can’t finish,” the first replied.

Hirito sat back down on the bed and glanced at his phone. A few minutes remained before the alarm. Too early for arguments like this — or maybe too late. Sometimes there wasn’t much difference.

Footsteps followed. Quick, sharp. Then the sound of a door closing — not slammed, but shut with effort. After that, the conversation ended.

The hallway fell silent again.

The silence didn’t last long.

From the room across the hall came another sound — almost unnoticeable unless you listened carefully. A pencil touching paper. A line. A pause. Another line. Calm, steady, as if whatever was happening beyond the walls had already been accounted for — or simply didn’t matter.

Hirito exhaled, turned off the alarm before it rang, and headed for the shower.

After washing up and changing, he stepped into the hallway. The light was even and cool — the kind of morning atmosphere where everything felt simpler and more honest. Yesterday’s night arguments already felt distant, like a crack that had begun to close.

When he opened the door, he saw Ren.

Ren was leaning against the wall, holding a mug in both hands. Steam rose in a thin stream. He looked as if the morning had never really ended for him — only continued.

“Morning,” Ren said.

“Morning,” Hirito replied.

“You heard them?” Ren nodded toward the kitchen.

Hirito nodded.

“Sendō and Tasuke,” Ren said. “Again.”

“They argue a lot?” Hirito asked.

“Often,” Ren answered without hesitation. “Especially when they can’t agree on something.”

He took a sip of tea, then added casually,

“They got a letter before the school year started. From a game company.”

Hirito turned to him, surprised, ready to listen.

“They were offered a chance to make a game,” Ren continued. “Not a school project. A real one. With conditions, deadlines, and a final review. Something like a contract. For future work.”

“So they’re working together?” Hirito asked.

“Yeah. Sendō handles coding and the system itself. Tasuke works on visuals and story.”

Ren shrugged lightly. “That’s why they clash. Each of them wants to push their own idea.”

Hirito nodded. He didn’t know the details, but he understood the important part. The argument wasn’t about taste or personality.

It was about choice.

“And what about you?” Hirito asked. “You okay with that?”

Ren smiled faintly. “I just don’t want the place getting louder.”

The kitchen welcomed them with warm light and the quiet sound of boiling water. Ayaka stood by the table, arranging mugs as if she’d done it a hundred times before. When she noticed them, she looked up.

“Oh,” she said. “Good. Everyone’s waking up.”

“Not everyone,” Ren replied.

“Soon enough,” Ayaka said, placing the kettle back on the stove. “There’ll be tea. That’s not a question.”

Hirito sat down, wrapping his hands around a warm mug. The atmosphere felt strangely calm — as if the morning conflict had already become part of the background.

“I visited my parents yesterday,” Ayaka said suddenly, as if continuing a conversation that hadn’t started yet. “Only came back this morning.”

“That’s why he left,” Ren said.

“Mm. But now I’m back here,” she replied, quickly looking around the kitchen. “And now everything’s back in order.”

“You decided that yourself?” Ren asked.

“Of course,” Ayaka nodded. “Someone has to.”

She fell silent for a moment, then looked at Hirito.

“We haven’t properly introduced ourselves yet,” she said. “I’m Ayaka.”

Hirito lifted his head slightly.

“I’m… Hirito.”

Ayaka stepped closer and held out her hand.

“Then nice to meet you, neighbor,” she said with a small smile.

She paused again, glanced at the table, and frowned slightly.

“Wait… did someone forget about Naomi?”

Ren shook his head.

“She usually wakes up on her own.”

“Usually, yes,” Ayaka replied. “But this morning feels… too early somehow.”

“Then go wake her,” Ren said.

Ayaka gave him a tired look.

“You know me better than that.”

“…Fine,” she sighed.

She tilted her head toward Hirito.

“Could you go? It’ll be easier. Just knock and tell her tea’s ready.”

“Me?” Hirito asked.

“Mhm,” Ayaka nodded. “You’re calm. She won’t be scared of you.”

“That sounds strange,” Ren muttered.

“It’s true,” Ayaka shrugged.

Hirito placed his mug back on the table and stepped into the hallway.

The corridor was quieter than the kitchen. The light was even, the doors identical. Naomi’s room was directly across from his.

He stopped in front of the door and stood there for a few seconds, listening. No sound came from inside.

He knocked lightly.

“Naomi,” he said. “It’s Hirito.”

Silence.

He waited, then knocked again.

“Tea’s ready in the kitchen. Ayaka asked me to call you.”

Still no response.

From the kitchen came Ren’s voice, louder than necessary:

“Hirito! If she doesn’t answer, just wake her up! Otherwise Ayaka won’t let it go!”

Hirito exhaled quietly.

He tried the handle and noticed the door wasn’t locked — only slightly closed. After a brief hesitation, he pushed it open carefully.

The room was dim. The curtains were drawn. On the desk lay pencils, an eraser, sheets of paper. Everything was arranged neatly — not chaotic, but deliberate, as if each item had its place.

A large drawing covered most of the desk.

It showed a city. Heavy, uneven, drawn with the kind of attention that suggested it had been observed for a long time before being put onto paper.

Hirito stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t understand why his breathing had changed. There was no decorative beauty in the drawing — only focus. Care. Presence.

He stepped closer to the bed.

“Naomi…” he said quietly. “Sorry. I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”

She lay facing the wall. After a moment, she slowly pushed herself up, as if waking not from sound, but from the feeling of someone being there.

Her hair was slightly messy, her movements still heavy with sleep.

Hirito looked away almost immediately, noticing that the top buttons of her shirt were undone just a little more than they should have been. Nothing explicit — but enough to make him turn back toward the drawing without thinking.

“Sorry,” Hirito said quickly. “Ayaka made tea. Everyone’s in the kitchen.”

The sound of fabric shifting followed.

“I see,” Naomi replied evenly.

Hirito was about to leave, but his gaze lingered on the drawing again.

“It’s beautifully drawn,” he said quietly.

A pause.

“It’s just a sketch,” Naomi answered.

“Then you make very serious and beautiful sketches,” Hirito said.

“I’m not finished yet,” she added.

“I see,” he nodded, then stepped out, closing the door almost silently behind him.

The air in the hallway felt cooler.

When Hirito returned to the kitchen, the conversation continued, though more quietly now.

“Well? Did you call her?” Ayaka asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “She’ll come if she wants to.”

Ayaka studied him for a moment but said nothing.

A few minutes later, the door opened softly.

Naomi appeared in the doorway. She paused briefly, taking in the kitchen, then walked inside. She took a mug, poured herself tea, and sat slightly apart from the others.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t greet anyone.

She was simply there.

“Thanks for waking me,” she said quietly, without looking directly at Hirito.

He nodded.

Chairs moved back, mugs emptied, backpacks found their way onto shoulders. Naomi stood first and left without calling anyone.

Hirito followed a little later.

Not because someone asked him to.

But because he understood that morning was over, and the day had begun.

The walk to school took less time than Hirito expected.

Not because the distance was short — his thoughts simply didn’t cling to each step. The morning at the dormitory still lingered somewhere inside him, not fully released yet, as if the space itself had followed them outside. The sound of cars, students talking, shop doors opening — everything blended into a steady flow.

Naomi walked ahead.

Not fast, not slow — just at a pace that didn’t adjust to anyone else. She didn’t look back to check if anyone followed. It felt as if she knew the route not only by memory, but by instinct.

Ren walked beside Hirito.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said quietly. “Everyone here moves at their own rhythm.”

“I noticed,” Hirito replied.

Near the school gates, the crowd thickened. Some students slowed down, others hurried past, conversations kept low as if people were afraid of being late simply by talking too long.

Hirito entered with the others.

The school smelled faintly of cleaning supplies, paper, and something else — familiar, though hard to name. The corridors were wide, bright, and strangely uniform. It felt easy to get lost here if you didn’t know where you were going.

The classroom was noisy, but not chaotic. Students took their seats, pulled out notebooks, exchanged short conversations. Each desk stood separately, creating the odd impression that although many people were present, everyone remained on their own.

Hirito found his name on the list and sat down.

Ren was by the window. Sendō sat closer to the center of the class. Tasuke was a row behind him. They all looked focused — as if school wasn’t a place they had to be, but simply somewhere things happened.

The teacher entered without unnecessary words.

The lesson began immediately. The pace was fast but not overwhelming. Hirito managed to keep up, to understand, though from time to time he caught himself thinking that some answers sounded more confident than they should.

He noticed that Sendō rarely raised his hand.

But when he raised his hand, he spoke precisely. No explanations, no unnecessary words. The teacher nodded and moved on, as if the matter had been settled completely.

Hirito watched this and felt a strange mix of emotions. Not envy. More like an awareness of distance — not physical, but internal.

During the break, the classroom came alive.

Chairs scraped, conversations overlapped, someone laughed while others discussed assignments. Hirito remained in his seat, flipping through his notebook until Ren stopped beside him.

“Doing okay?” Ren asked.

“Yeah,” Hirito replied. “It’s just… fast.”

“It always is here,” Ren nodded. “If you slow down, catching up gets harder.”

Voices drifted in from the hallway.

“…the conditions are strict.”

“…if it doesn’t work, there won’t be a second chance.”

“…but if it does…”

Hirito understood they were talking about Sendō and Tasuke even before Ren confirmed it with a glance.

“They’re being watched,” Ren said quietly. “Even if they don’t want to be.”

At the end of the corridor, Hirito noticed Naomi.

She sat on the windowsill, a notebook resting on her knees. Her pencil moved slowly, almost lazily. The noise around her didn’t seem to reach her. People passed by without stopping, as if instinctively sensing a boundary.

For a moment, she looked up.

Their eyes met.

She smiled faintly — not immediately. Just a calm, attentive look before returning to her drawing.

There was no question in that glance. No invitation.

Only acknowledgment.

I’m here.

The final lesson ended as quietly as it had begun. The bell didn’t bring relief — only permission to move forward.

Hirito packed his things and left the classroom with the others. Near the exit, Ren caught up with him.

“Well,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “your first full day at a new place survived.”

“Looks like it,” Hirito replied.

Ren smiled.

“It’ll get more interesting from here.”

Hirito wasn’t sure whether it was a joke or a warning. But he still found himself thinking about yesterday.

And for some reason, he believed it.

After the last lesson, the school seemed to exhale.

The corridors filled with movement, but not noise. Students left in small groups or alone; some lingered near lockers, others talked on their phones. The day hadn’t ended — it had simply changed shape.

Hirito walked beside Ren without hurrying. The fatigue he felt was mild, not from exhaustion but from constant attention. He realized he hadn’t felt a moment where he could truly relax. Everything had moved smoothly, but it demanded focus.

“You’ll get used to it,” Ren said, as if reading his thoughts. “The first day’s always like this.”

“I guess,” Hirito answered. “It just feels that way.”

Ren smiled slightly. “Then it’s probably going well.”

Near the school gates, Ayaka caught up with them.

“So,” she said without slowing down, “the plan’s changing.”

“There was a plan?” Ren asked.

“There is now,” Ayaka replied. “We need to stop by a store. Food first — inspiration later. Tasuke works better when there’s a deadline nearby.”

“That’s not true,” Tasuke said, appearing beside them. “I already have inspiration.”

“I said food,” Ayaka corrected calmly.

Sendō walked slightly ahead of the group. He didn’t join the conversation, but he was listening. His steps suggested his thoughts were still somewhere else — probably replaying the morning’s argument. He didn’t look angry anymore. Just focused.

The store wasn’t far. Ordinary, without bright signs, filled with narrow aisles and the familiar hum of refrigerators.

“I said food,” Ayaka repeated calmly.

Sendō walked slightly ahead. He didn’t join the conversation, but he was listening. From the way he moved, it was clear his thoughts were still replaying the argument from the morning. He wasn’t angry anymore — he was analyzing.

The store was nearby. Ordinary, without bright signs, filled with narrow aisles and the familiar hum of refrigerators. The basket filled quickly — at first with what they needed, and then with things added “just in case.”

“That’s unnecessary,” Ayaka said, looking at another package.

“It’s a strategic reserve,” Ren argued.

“They’re chips.”

“Strategic ones.”

Hirito followed behind with the basket, watching quietly. He didn’t argue or suggest anything. He simply noticed how naturally the group found a shared rhythm. Even Sendō would occasionally stop and say “this one” or “not that,” and that was enough.

By the time they left the store, evening had begun to settle over the city. The sky slowly lost its color, and the streetlights mixed with the last reflections of daylight.

They returned to the dormitory almost at the same time, each carrying their own sense of the evening.

The kitchen became the center again. Someone started cooking immediately, someone cut vegetables, someone simply stood nearby and talked without really helping — yet still becoming part of the process.

Hirito stood by the table, carefully slicing ingredients. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were checking himself.

“You’re strangely calm when you do that,” Ayaka noticed.

“Is that bad?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s rare.”

Sendō and Tasuke stayed on opposite sides of the kitchen. They weren’t arguing, and that made the distance between them even more noticeable. Sometimes Sendō looked at his phone, sometimes Tasuke checked something on a recipe page, but neither crossed the space between them.

The food turned out simple.

But when they sat down together, Hirito realized it wasn’t about the meal.

The conversation began cautiously. Not about school, not about plans. Someone mentioned the walk back, someone complained about homework, someone laughed quietly.

“So you really just transferred here?” Ayaka asked, looking at Hirito over her mug.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I wanted a change.”

“That’s braver than it sounds,” she said.

“Or more reckless,” Ren added.

“It’s the same thing,” Ayaka shrugged.

Hirito smiled faintly.

Naomi ate quietly. Sometimes she lifted her gaze, sometimes paused at someone’s words, but she didn’t join the conversation. When Hirito glanced at her once, she was already looking down at the table.

After dinner, they cleaned up together. No arguments, no instructions. It was simply easier that way.

When Hirito returned to his room, it was quiet.

He sat on the bed and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

The day had been long. Not exhausting — dense. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time in a while, that didn’t bother him.

Somewhere beyond the wall, someone walked past. A door closed in the distance.

Hirito stared at the ceiling.

Maybe this was how getting used to something began, he thought.

Not suddenly.

Not all at once.

Step by step.

The dormitory didn’t become quiet immediately.

At first, it was the usual evening silence — footsteps behind walls, muted voices, the sound of running water. Then it slowly deepened, as if the world itself was lowering its volume.

Hirito lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

The lamp was off. Streetlight slipped through the curtains, casting uneven shadows across the wall. He wasn’t trying to fall asleep. Sleep would come later. For now, he didn’t want to lose the feeling the day had left behind.

His thoughts returned to the morning.

The argument in the hallway.

The sound of pencil against paper.

The kitchen.

The classroom.

Naomi’s glance in the hallway.

Voices around the table.

None of these fragments formed a single story yet. They existed separately, as if the day itself hadn’t decided what it was meant to become.

Hirito turned onto his side.

Evenings used to feel empty. Not bad — just unfilled. He would finish homework, scroll through his phone, wait until it was late enough to sleep.

Today was different.

He didn’t feel lonely. But he didn’t feel held back by anyone either. It was a strange, almost unfamiliar feeling — when you could leave, but didn’t want to.

Somewhere in the dormitory, a door creaked open. Then footsteps — light, almost silent. Hirito didn’t know who it was, but for some reason he imagined Naomi. Her careful way of walking, the way she seemed to listen to silence rather than break it.

The thought passed without needing to continue.

He looked back at the ceiling.

Today, he hadn’t needed to become someone else. He hadn’t needed to prove anything, explain himself, or fit into expectations. He had simply lived through the day — and somehow, that was enough.

Hirito closed his eyes.

Tomorrow would continue.

School.

The dormitory.

People.

And maybe, it would still be ordinary.

But now that word sounded different.

Not like a flaw.

But like a starting point.