The office break room wasn't anything special—white walls, humming vending machines, a microwave that beeped too loudly, and a communal fridge filled with passive-aggressive sticky notes. But today, it felt different. Not because of the setting, but because of her.
Aika stood near the counter, pouring hot water into a paper cup of instant miso soup. She looked out of place amidst the dull colours of corporate grey—like someone who carried her own storm of self-possession into any room and never apologized for it.
Ren sat by the lower table nearest the window, his chair parked at a slight angle, the sunlight glinting off the brushed rims of his wheelchair. He wasn't sure when their breaks had begun to overlap. Maybe it was deliberate on her part—maybe she just followed the scent of miso like a homing signal. Or maybe the universe was playing a trick on him, teasing him with moments that felt too much like childhood.
She walked toward him with two cups in hand.
"I brought the better coffee," Aika said, setting the one with the blue lid in front of him. "The one from the legal floor. Don't let the engineers bully you into thinking sludge from the corner machine is acceptable."
Ren offered a soft chuckle. "I was beginning to lose hope."
"You looked like you needed saving," she said, and something about those words sent a ripple through him. Like they were plucked from a memory too far gone to name.
He watched as she pulled up a seat across from him—not a chair exactly, but one of the movable benches used in the informal lounge area. She pulled it beside his wheelchair like she had a right to that space, to that moment beside him. And for some reason… he didn't mind.
"I never thanked you properly," she said, sipping her miso. "For the report draft. Your work helped shut down the misappropriation angle completely."
Ren shook his head. "I just organized what was already there."
"You cross-referenced payroll records, rewrote corrupted audit logs, and reconstructed deleted emails from six months ago," she countered. "That's not 'just.' That's tenacity."
He looked away—not in modesty, but in defence. If he let himself look at her too long, he'd lose the lines he'd carefully drawn around his heart.
Aika leaned forward, resting her elbow on the edge of the table. "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Shrink from compliments. You deflect more than our firewall."
Ren smiled faintly. "Habit, I guess."
Aika studied him for a second. Then, as if deciding to let it go, she reached into her bag and unwrapped a small rice ball. "Here. I made extras."
He stared at it. Not because it was unfamiliar, but because it was too familiar.
"Thank you," he said quietly, accepting it with two hands.
His fingers brushed hers—just a second. But it was a second too long for his heart to behave. The warmth of her skin lingered, a lightning bolt that stayed even after it was gone.
She leaned back on the bench and took another bite of her food. "You always eat alone?"
"Not always," he said. "But I don't usually get invited."
"You're invited now."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was full. Layered. Like something lived there already. Something returning.
For a heartbeat, the present blurred. He was ten again, sitting under the Sakura tree behind the school, his sketchbook on his knees, and she, beside him unwrapping her lunch with that same casual grace. He remembered how she always tapped her chopsticks twice before eating. She still did.
She didn't recognize the pattern. But he did.
She took another bite. "So… what do you do when you're not saving people's careers?"
Ren hesitated, then offered, "I build accessibility apps. Tools for communication, visual clarity, speech aid."
"For work?"
"For me. And people like me. But some of them caught traction. A few non-profits use them."
Her eyes lit with genuine interest. "That's incredible. Why haven't you mentioned that before?"
Ren smiled. "You never asked."
She gave him a look. "That's such a terrible deflection. You should be proud."
"I'm… getting there."
Their conversation shifted from apps to books, then to travel. She mentioned wanting to revisit Okinawa. He told her about a hidden bookstore he once saw photos of but never dared to visit. She made a note of it—literally, on her phone. "We should go," she said absently.
Ren's heart skipped. We. As if they were part of a shared sentence.
He wanted to tell her then. Everything. That she'd saved him more times than she knew. That her words lived in his mind like mantras. That she was the reason he still living and never gave up—even when the world gave up on him.
But he stopped.
Because if he told her, and she walked away again, he didn't think he could bear it.
So he laughed softly and asked about her favourite noodles instead.
They finished their break with empty cups and half-finished thoughts.
As she stood to leave, she gave him a nod. "Same time tomorrow?"
He nodded. "I'll bring better stories."
She smirked. "I'll bring snacks."
And with that, she walked away—her form fading around the corner of the hall, just like it had seventeen years ago.
But this time, he had wheels. And a heart still waiting for its storm.
Ren almost said it—almost told her who he was. But tomorrow is another break, another chance. Maybe someday… maybe.