It had been two weeks since the rainy day.
Two weeks of quiet mornings and gentle evenings. Shared coffee cups and mismatched socks. The kind of soft domesticity Takara had never imagined possible for himself—especially not with Kayo, who had once glared at him for breathing too loudly.
But love had crept in like sunlight through old curtains—slow, steady, impossible to ignore.
And still, something felt… off.
Not broken. Just unsettled.
Like there was a thought between them neither wanted to say out loud.
It started with the closet.
Takara had spent the morning reorganizing his side of the shared apartment. Kayo, half-asleep, emerged from the bedroom to find the living room littered with folded clothes and Takara knee-deep in boxes.
Kayo blinked. "Did a tornado hit?"
"Don't be dramatic. I'm cleaning," Takara replied, holding up a shirt. "Do you still like this one on me?"
Kayo tilted his head. "That's mine."
Takara gasped. "Is it?!"
"Yes."
"…Oops."
"Just put it back in my closet when you're done stealing my identity."
Takara grinned and tossed the shirt at him. "Fine. But only if you admit you like when I wear your stuff."
Kayo caught it. "I like when you're wearing anything."
Takara flushed. "You can't just say that with a straight face."
Kayo shrugged. "Then stop blushing."
But later, after the laughter, Takara stood in front of the closet for a long time.
He stared at the suitcases on the top shelf.
Two of them. His.
Still zipped shut from the move, barely touched.
It hit him all at once—how temporary this all still felt. How nothing, technically, was permanent. They never really talked about the future. Or if they were even building one together.
He wasn't sure if it was fear or hope that clenched his chest.
Kayo walked past, noticed his silence.
"You okay?" he asked.
Takara hesitated. "Do you think we'll stay like this?"
Kayo blinked. "Like what?"
"Living together. Doing laundry together. You making fun of my singing."
Kayo tilted his head. "You mean—do I think we'll last?"
Takara nodded, heart tight.
Kayo was quiet.
Too quiet.
That night, they lay on opposite ends of the couch.
Not arguing.
Just… distant.
Like they'd both stepped back into their own heads, trying not to trip over the idea of forever.
Kayo finally said, "I don't know how to answer that."
Takara looked over.
"I want to say yes," Kayo continued, "but I've never had anything last. My mom left when I was six. My dad was… in and out. People come and go. It's how I learned to survive."
Takara's throat burned. "So you don't trust that we will?"
"I don't trust the world not to take you away."
And just like that, the space between them grew.
Takara wanted to scream. Or cry. Or run.
Instead, he whispered, "I'm not asking you to promise the future. I'm asking if you want it."
Kayo looked at him for a long time.
Then: "I do."
They didn't sleep much.
Takara curled up beside Kayo in bed but faced the wall, staring at the shadows. Kayo's hand hovered near his back but didn't touch. Like he wasn't sure if he was allowed.
In the dark, Takara whispered, "Why is this so hard?"
Kayo's voice was soft. "Because we care."
Takara rolled over slowly, meeting his eyes. "I don't want to lose you. Not to doubt. Not to fear. Not to whatever this thing is that's creeping between us."
Kayo finally reached out, fingers brushing Takara's cheek. "Then let's face it. Together."
Takara nodded.
Still scared. Still unsure.
But willing.
Always willing.
The next morning, they talked.
Really talked.
Not just about dishes or schedules or who left the bathroom light on.
But about dreams. About fears.
Takara confessed he sometimes still had nightmares about being alone. About waking up in the dorm that first day with no one left in the world.
Kayo admitted he still didn't know how to ask for things. That sometimes he waited for Takara to pull him out of his own silence.
"You never have to wait," Takara said. "I'll always listen."
"I know," Kayo replied. "But sometimes I need help believing that."
They sat with that.
Uncomfortable. Real.
But healing.
That weekend, they went for a walk.
Just the two of them. No phones. No distractions.
The trees in the neighborhood had started shedding their leaves. The pavement was slick and golden.
Takara reached for Kayo's hand without thinking.
Kayo took it without hesitating.
They passed a park filled with children chasing each other.
A quiet bench beneath a tree.
A bakery that smelled like cinnamon and warm bread.
They paused there.
Kayo looked at the window display—two pastries shaped like cats.
"Those are hideous," he said.
Takara laughed. "We're getting them."
"No, Takara—"
"We are getting cat bread, Kayo."
Kayo sighed. "This is what I get for loving a lunatic."
But he smiled.
And they bought the pastries.
Back at home, Takara took a picture of them holding their ugly cat bread.
He posted it online with the caption:
"Domestic chaos level: achieved 🐾"
Kayo, standing behind him, read it and muttered, "I hate that I like this."
Takara beamed. "You love that you like it."
Kayo didn't deny it.
That night, as they got ready for bed, Kayo surprised him.
"I looked into scholarships," he said, brushing his teeth.
Takara blinked. "For what?"
"Study abroad."
Takara's heart skipped. "Where?"
"France. One semester. Art and literature program."
Takara felt dizzy. "Wait—you're going?"
"I want to," Kayo said carefully. "I think it'd be good for me."
Takara's chest tightened. "Are you… asking me to come?"
Kayo looked up. "No."
Takara flinched.
But Kayo stepped closer, voice steady. "I'm asking if you'd wait. Just for a few months."
Silence.
Then: "Would you?"
Takara searched his eyes.
Sincere. Nervous. Hopeful.
And for the first time, he saw not just the boy from high school, but the man he was becoming.
Takara nodded.
"I would wait a year, Kayo. Maybe two. As long as I know you're coming back."
Kayo smiled—small, relieved, beautiful.
"I am," he said.
And Takara believed him.
Later that night, Takara opened his journal again.
Dear future me,
We're not perfect.
We're still figuring things out. Still stumbling through conversations and fears and big, scary questions.
But today, Kayo told me he wants to go to France. And instead of panicking, I told him I'd wait.
Because loving someone doesn't mean tying them down.
It means giving them wings.
And knowing they'll fly back to you.
He closed the journal.
Beside him, Kayo slept peacefully.
And outside, the city sighed into nightfall.