The bakery was quiet. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Haruka was dusting the glass case, reorganizing the pastries into neat little rows, when she caught sight of something she hadn't looked at in weeks.

Herself.

The mirror behind the counter wasn't even a full one—a plain reflective panel meant to bounce back light. But how it startled her was akin to being splashed with cold water. Her arm froze mid-air, fingers still clutching a pair of tongs.

She leaned a little closer.

The girl staring back at her had hollow cheeks and pale circles under her eyes. Her sweater hung looser than it had previously. Her wrists, barely hidden by the sleeves, seemed fragile, as if they weren't meant to be on someone her age.

When did that happen?

The tongs clinked softly when she set them down.

She wasn't blind. Not really. She just… hadn't wanted to look. Deliberately avoided doing so. There was always something else to focus on—washing trays, slicing bread, folding paper bags. Distractions were easier than reflections.

But now the mirror wouldn't stop looking back.

That evening, Haruka helped Natsumi sweep the last bits of the bakery before closing the front door. The sun had dipped below the rooftop level, and the sky was painted in burnt orange and pink. As they walked side by side on the quiet road, Natsumi halted halfway.

"Ah, I almost forgot," she said with a small smile, rummaging in her tote bag. "Kaito dropped by earlier. He asked me to give you this."

She handed Haruka a paper bag.

Haruka blinked, accepting it tentatively. Folded neatly on top was a sticky note.

She read it under the streetlight.

"For the one who keeps forgetting to eat."

Her fingers trembled.

Inside the bag, a bun. A soft roll filled with her favorite sweet potato paste. Still warm.

Nothing dramatic about it—no words, no confrontation.

Just quiet care. Just someone noticing without making her have to speak it out loud.

Later, in her room, she sat on the edge of her futon, bag still on her lap. She unwrapped the bun and bit into it. Then again. The warmth spread through her mouth, down her throat, into her chest.

Tears leaked out before she could stop them.

She wasn't used to this.

To be noticed.

To be fed not for accomplishment, not for celebration, but because someone wanted her to be okay.

That night, she put the sticky note in the drawer of her nightstand—the one where she'd begun keeping them. Not out of politeness. Not out of guilt.

But because they were starting to feel real.

Like maybe she was somebody.

Even when the mirror said otherwise.