Chapter 6: Fragments of an Ordinary Day

‘Nothing special, nothing grand—just the moment everything began to shift.’

Arriving at the campus, the place already feels familiar—almost comforting now.

A month ago, when I first set foot here, everything felt like a maze.

Unfamiliar faces.

A language that slipped past my understanding.

Different food, culture, pace, even the way people greeted each other.

Everything demanded adjustment—one careful step at a time.

It was a bold decision, leaving home for a world this far away.

I came here through an exchange program, tied to a research project I’d been working on.

Professor Ikimura—my supervisor, my guide through it all.

Here, in this university, I’ve learned more than I expected—about people, about research, about myself.

And before I even realize it, my steps have brought me to the front of his office door.

I took a quiet breath before knocking on the door.

「どうぞー」

(“Come in..”) 

A calm voice replied from inside.

I slid the door open slightly, peeking in.

「おじゃまします」

(“Excuse me for intruding.”)

Professor Ikimura looked up from his desk, glasses perched near the tip of his nose. 

The same gentle smile appeared—the one I recognised well.

「おお、アリンさん。来てくれてありがとう。」

(“Oh, Arin-san. Thank you for coming.”)

I nodded politely and stepped inside.

He gestured toward the seat in front of his desk.

The room smelled faintly of tea and old paper—a comforting mix of research and familiarity. 

Piles of printed drafts, notebooks, and books covered his table, yet everything seemed neatly ordered in his own way.

「待ってね… 英語に慣れる時間がちょっとほしいの。」
(“Wait a bit… I just need some time to get used to English.”)

His casual remark made me smile a little.

「はい、気にしないでください。」
(“Yes.. Please don’t worry.”)

I replied softly, polite and careful.

He adjusted himself, folding his hands on the desk and leaning slightly forward.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you before you get too busy again.” 

He began.

His tone was calm, deliberate—slow English with a gentle Japanese accent.

I lifted my gaze, trying to catch his words properly.
Even though it was a familiar language to me, the rhythm, the pronunciation, felt slightly different—something I still needed to tune into.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” 

His voice was careful—each word measured as if it were part of a thought still being translated. 

“Your Japanese… it has improved a lot.”

I lifted my head slightly, surprised.

“Not just speaking.” he continued.

“But in reading too—and the way you write, the way you… understand the culture behind the words. I could see it at the conference.”

“You looked comfortable—confident.”

His tone carried no formality, only a kind of proud sincerity that made me feel a quiet warmth spreading through my chest.

“Thank you.” 

I said softly, unsure of what else could fit between us in that moment.

He nodded, a small smile forming. 

“I’m grateful, too—for you joining the conference. Your participation brought credit to the department, you know. It means a lot to have you represent us.”

His gaze drifted to the window, where sunlight fell through the blinds, thin and golden. 

“We don’t always get students who work so carefully with both languages. It takes… heart, I think.”

I bowed my head, murmuring a faint thank-you, feeling the sincerity behind his words.

He turned back to me, voice taking a thoughtful edge. 

“You should try more academic writing—maybe publish your papers. You could start with a local journal, now that your Japanese is strong enough.”

I hesitated, the idea itself feeling too far, too much. 

“I don’t think I’m ready yet… My writing still needs a lot of work.”

He gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. 

“No one ever feels ready. You just start—and learn in the process. Confidence will come later.”

His words felt simple, yet they lingered, heavy in meaning—like something I might recall years from now.

Then, his tone shifted slightly, casual but carrying a curious glint.
“I see you’re making more friends now.”

I blinked, unsure what he meant until he added, 

“Professor Miya’s son—I saw you the other day. You two seem quite close. Getting along well, hm?”

My breath caught for a fraction of a second.

“He’s a polite kid,” he continued, almost to himself. 

“A good student, too.”

I managed a small nod, though my thoughts had already begun to drift.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure who he was referring to.

“Which one…” 

I asked hesitantly, the words slipping out softer than I intended.

He looked at me, a faint smile forming at the corner of his lips.

“Oh? You must have many friends now.” 

He said with a light laugh—the kind that carried the warmth of a proud parent watching their child find their place in a new world.

I returned a small smile, though my mind stayed tangled in quiet confusion.

He paused, frowning slightly as he searched his memory. 

“Hi… ne… ki?” he murmured, tapping his fingers on the desk as if that would help him recall. 

“Hinezaki? Ah—yes. Fuyumiya Hinezaki. Miya’s son.”

The name hung in the air between us.

It didn’t sound like the person I was expecting.
For a heartbeat, I wondered if he might have seen someone else—maybe someone who just happened to walk beside me that day.

Or maybe… it was me, and someone was there.
I couldn’t tell anymore.

He reached for his phone, scrolling through his contacts with a thoughtful hum.
“Wait a bit,” he said, glancing up at me. 

“I’ll introduce you to someone.”

“Yes,” I replied simply.

The room fell into a comfortable silence—only the occasional tap of his finger against the screen filled the air.
I watched quietly as he swiped, paused, then tapped again, his expression a blend of concentration and mild satisfaction when he found the right contact.

He raised the phone to his ear, speaking in fluent, fast-paced Japanese.
The kind I could follow only in fragments—familiar words tangled in a rhythm still too quick to grasp.
I gave up halfway, letting the sound wash over me instead, like a stream running somewhere nearby.

After a brief exchange, he ended the call and looked back at me.
“He said it’ll take about an hour before he arrives” 

He explained.

I blinked once, unsure what expression to wear. 

“Ah…”

He chuckled softly at my blank look. 

“It’s okay. Why don’t we grab lunch together first?”

I nodded in quiet agreement.

We gathered our things, the rustle of papers and soft scrape of chairs marking the end of the conversation, and we stepped out into the corridor—toward whatever waited in that unplanned hour ahead.

The restaurant was a familiar one—warm, modest, tucked at the corner just beside the campus.

I’d been here a few times before. 

The food suited my diet, and the place always felt like a small escape from the noise of the university.

Professor Ikimura had let me pick the spot, as he always did. 

He never said it aloud, but I knew—it was because of me, because I had restrictions and he didn’t. 

He was the kind of person who adapted to others quietly, without making it a favor.

The staff greeted us with smiles and led us to a window seat. 

Sunlight spilled across the table, scattering faint reflections over the glasses and silverware. 

We placed our orders without much thought; routine gestures, easy and familiar.

As we waited, I let my gaze wander—over the quiet clatter of dishes, the muted laughter from another table, the faint music drifting from a speaker somewhere above.
There was a comfort in simply watching, in being surrounded by the ordinariness of people. 

For a moment, I let myself sink into that rhythm—unhurried, simple, alive.

A soft chime broke the silence.
It wasn’t from me.

Professor Ikimura glanced at his phone, his expression unreadable, and typed a short reply. 

When he finally set it down, he gave me a small smile—the kind that carried more warmth than words.

I returned it with a faint one of my own.

“You come here often?” he asked after a pause.

“Ah, yes. It’s nearby,” I replied, setting down my cup.

He nodded slowly, eyes following the steam that rose from his tea. 

“The other shops take time to travel to. I only visit them when I have free time.” 

I continued.

He chuckled softly. 

“I feel the same. Convenience wins most of the time.”

“Hmm…” he mused, tapping his finger against the cup. 

“Have you tried many other dishes yet? Japan has a lot to offer.”

“A few.”  I said, thinking. 

“I’ve looked up some places online—there are so many I still want to try.”

Our talk drifted easily from there—about food, small places hidden in corners, and the quiet comfort of cafés tucked between busy streets.
Somewhere between that flow, a thought surfaced.

“Professor.” I asked, almost absently.

“Is it possible to ask a restaurant to make a custom order?”

He blinked, slightly puzzled.
“Custom order?”

“Yes.” I clarified.

“Like asking them to remove some ingredients… for allergy, or dietary reasons.”

“Ah..” he said, the realization softening his tone. 

“Perhaps. Some places might. Especially if the chef knows you personally.”

He paused, thinking further. 

“Or if the restaurant values its customers deeply—some are dedicated like that.”

I nodded, smiling faintly. 

“That makes sense.”

The quiet returned between us, not heavy—just gentle.
The faint sound of wind brushed against the window, like the world exhaling softly between words.

The thought of him came uninvited.
Like a soft echo that slipped through the clatter of plates and the low hum of the restaurant.

I remembered our last meal together—how I’d hesitated at first, unsure about the place he’d chosen.
The warmth of that day returned in fragments.

The way he’d studied my reaction so seriously, trying to make sure I could eat comfortably.

My chest tightened, just a little.
“He really… didn’t have to go that far,” I murmured under my breath.

The words vanished into the air before they could reach anyone.

Across the table, Professor Ikimura was reading something on his phone, unaware of the small storm that had just passed through my mind.

I reached for my cup again, letting the warmth steady my hands.

A man’s voice came to our direction— low, composed, yet oddly familiar.

I turned slightly, but couldn’t place who it belonged to.

He approached our table with measured steps, stopping beside Professor Ikimura.

「生村先生、お待たせしてすみません。」

(“Professor Ikimura, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.”)

「少し時間をいただいていました。」

(“I just take a little more time to come.”)

The man bowed lightly, his tone polite and steady.

He was tall—his posture straight, his expression calm. 

There was a certain sharpness in his features, but his smile softened it, a quiet warmth behind the formality.

Professor Ikimura stood to greet him in return, the two exchanging a few words in easy familiarity.

For a brief moment, I simply watched—the faint sense of recognition stirring again, just out of reach.

Professor Ikimura gestured between us with a gentle smile.

「それはアリン、こちらはアツ。じゃあ、おたがいにあいさつしましょう。」

(“This is Arin, and this is Atsu. Now, let’s greet each other.”)

I straightened slightly, offering a polite bow.

He mirrored the gesture, his movements precise yet effortless.

「アツです、竜胆 篤。」

(“I’m Atsu—Rindou Atsu.”)

「アリンです。」

(“Arin.”)

I replied softly, matching his tone.