Chapter 10: Eyes That Follows

‘The eyes remember what the heart tries to forget—even through the crowd, we always find the ones we’re meant to see.’

We finally arrived at a small shop tucked between narrow streets—the kind of place easy to miss unless you were looking for it. 

A faint chime rang as they stepped inside.

The cool air greeted them, carrying the scent of syrup and roasted tea.

Arin stepped in, looking around. The shop had a warm, old-fashioned feel—wood panels, soft light filtering through thin curtains, a few couples sitting by the window.

They sat by the corner table. 

A staff approached with a polite smile, placing down two menus.

Arin flipped hers open, her eyes tracing down the list.

“There’s matcha, strawberry, lemon—” 

She paused for a beat, “...yuzu.”

Her voice softened slightly on the last word, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

Across from her, Ren sat quietly, watching—not in a way that made her uncomfortable, but as if he was trying to remember every small detail. 

The way her eyes moved, how her tone lifted when she found something she liked.

When she finally looked up, their eyes met briefly.

He turned away first, rubbing the back of his neck as if to hide the faint embarrassment.

They both placed their orders. 

The clinking of glassware and the sounds of the ice shaver filled the pause between them.

For a moment, neither spoke. 

She found herself glancing at him. 

His outfit—casual and soft in tone—felt unfamiliar somehow.

It wasn’t the Ren she knew from conference halls and neatly pressed shirts.

Maybe it was the first time she’d seen him like this—more relaxed, less restrained.

Her gaze lingered just a second too long before she caught herself and looked away.

He noticed, though he said nothing. 

He simply rested his elbows on the table, eyes flicking toward the window as if pretending to be lost in the view.

Outside, the sunlight filtered through the curtain, tracing quiet patterns over the table—a calm space between them, still new, still delicate, yet warm in its silence.

A few minutes later, the staff returned, carrying two bowls that caught the afternoon light—mountains of shaved ice, glistening like crystal.

Hers, a bright yuzu kakigōri topped with thin orange slices; 

His, matcha with red beans.

She leaned forward to take a closer look.

The ice shimmered under the light, soft like snow.

She took the first bite and closed her eyes for a second. 

Covering her mouth with one hand.

Ren couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

He watched her for a moment—the sunlight through the curtain catching on her hair, the way her eyes softened when she smiled. 

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until she turned to him.

Her eyes blinked, as if weighing her words carefully before she spoke.

“Can I try yours?”

Ren’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. For a second, he froze — spoon halfway to his mouth — then he quickly slid his bowl toward her with both hands.

「ああ、これ..」

(“ahh, here..”) 

He said, his voice a touch higher than usual.

Arin tilted her head, noticing his sudden fluster.

“Oh— sorry,” 

She murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

“You’re not the type to share food?”

It wasn’t teasing exactly—more like a soft apology mixed with her usual habit of asking after the fact. 

He shook his head quickly, almost too quickly.

“Huh? N-no, it’s fine! You can try mine!”

His words tumbled over each other, awkward yet sincere.

She nodded, scooping a small spoonful and tasting it. 

The cold hit her tongue instantly, followed by that light sweetness.

The matcha flavor melted bittersweet on her tongue.

He couldn’t help but laugh—soft, genuine.

She gave a quiet laugh too, the sound light and amused, then leaned in a little, scooping another small spoonful from his bowl.

He blinked, caught off guard again—and this time, he didn’t know how to reply.

So he just smiled faintly, looking away as the faintest warmth crept up his ears.

Outside, the late afternoon sun slipped lower, painting the table in a gentle wash of gold.

A comfortable pause settled between them—the kind of silence that felt almost like understanding.

Arin toyed with her spoon, tracing slow circles into the half-melted ice.

Her reflection met his in the glass, their images blurring together—sunlight, syrup, and the faint shimmer of melting snow.

For a brief moment, it felt as if the world beyond this small shop didn’t exist.

Only the quiet between them, steady and fragile.

Ren broke it first.

“So… you’re staying here for study? How long?”

She lifted her gaze.

“One term. Hmm… about four months to go.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful, then a bit uncertain.

“I thought you’d be back home by now.”

The faint dip in his voice made her glance up. 

He looked almost disappointed, as though her not telling him earlier had left some small bruise she didn’t expect.

“I didn’t feel like I needed to tell it,” 

She said softly.

His head lifted, eyes widening just slightly—as if trying to make sense of it.

Her voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.

“Usually… no one would care.”

Ren stared at her for a moment, caught off guard by the softness in her words.

Not sadness exactly, but something quieter, something that had settled long ago.

He wanted to say something—anything—but the words tangled at the edge of his throat.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, fingers brushing against his cup.

“That’s… not true,” 

He said finally, his voice barely above a murmur.

Arin tilted her head slightly, unsure if she had heard him right.

Ren met her gaze—not steady, but sincere.

“I… want to know,” 

He said. 

“Even the little things you think don’t matter.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The faint hum of conversation filled the shop, blending with the soft clinking of spoons against glass.

Arin looked down, a small, almost invisible smile curving on her lips.

The kind that wasn’t forced, but uncertain, as if afraid it might fade too quickly.

“Then… I’ll tell you next time,” 

She whispered.

He blinked once, as if replaying her words in his mind—making sure he hadn’t imagined them.

He gave a small nod, the corners of his lips curving upward.

“...Then tell me,” 

He said quietly.

“I’ll listen.”

The sunlight had softened into amber, spilling through the window and catching faint glimmers in her hair.

The world beyond blurred—streets, people, colors—all folding into the quiet warmth of that moment.

In that little shop, with half-melted ice, fading light, and two people still learning how to reach each other.

The world felt just a little less lonely.

Their little outing had ended, and somehow, something in her chest felt lighter.

Arin sat by the window-side chair, stretching her arms as if to loosen the last traces of fatigue, before resting her head against the table—over the book she had picked to fill the quiet of the evening.

The library was calm. 

It was the weekend, and though a few people still lingered between the aisles, the air carried that soft hush unique to places that held both silence and stories.

Her gaze drifted, unfocused, toward the corner of the room—or perhaps somewhere deeper, toward the quiet corners of her own heart.

Meeting him today had stirred something she hadn’t realized before.

His eyes—they followed her, gently, unconsciously, tracing every small movement she made.

It was the kind of gaze people give when they like someone—not deliberate, but instinctive.

Even in a crowd, you can always find that one person. 

As naturally as breathing.

Arin lifted the book and pressed it lightly against her face, as if to hide the faint warmth blooming in her cheeks.

A soft whisper escaped her lips.

“…And I do that too.”

The thought settled deep within her, quiet but certain.

He was the one her eyes had been following—without her even noticing.

“Maybe…” 

She breathed, “I can try.”

But as soon as the words brushed her mind, the air around her seemed to shift—lightness fading into something heavier.

From the dim corners of memory, an old ache began to stir.

The fear of falling in love again—of being hurt, of losing—pressed down quietly, almost familiar.

It weighed more than she wanted to admit.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the paper cool beneath her palms.

For a while, she stayed that way—unmoving, listening to the quiet rustle of pages from nearby tables, the faint hum of the air conditioner, the muffled footsteps somewhere between the shelves.

She lowered the book and stared at the cover, not really seeing the title. 

The letters blurred softly as her thoughts drifted elsewhere—to the way his smile lingered a second too long, to the sound of his voice when he said her name.

It should’ve been simple—warm, light, easy.

But her heart didn’t quite know how to take it.

With a small sigh, Arin leaned back in her chair and looked toward the window. 

The late afternoon light was fading now, scattering soft gold across the glass, washing everything in a nostalgic calm.

She tried to smile—just a little—as if to reassure herself that she was fine.

“It’s okay,” 

She whispered, though no one was there to hear.

“Maybe… this time will be different.”

But even as she said it, her thumb traced the corner of the book again and again, the way people do when trying to keep something steady—a fragile rhythm to hold back the tremor of uncertainty quietly growing inside.

Ren sat by the roadside bench, waiting for someone to pick him up.

He had plans later—a drink with the boys, Atsu and the others—but for now, he just sat there, phone in hand, screen gone dark.

Her last message still glowed faintly in his mind.

“Thank you…”

Simple. Short. 

But somehow, it stayed with him.

He read it again, thumb brushing the screen, and the corners of his lips lifted—just slightly.

Her words didn’t say much, but he could feel the weight behind them.

She had smiled that way earlier—soft, uncertain, like she was afraid it might fade if she held it too long.

He leaned back, closing his eyes as the city’s sound filled in—the hum of traffic, the chatter of passersby.

「少しは信じてくれるようになったのかな。」

(“Maybe she’s starting to trust me.”)

He thought.

The words were small, careful, almost fragile.

He didn’t know what this was—love, friendship, or something quieter, like the comfort of being seen.

But whatever it was, he didn’t want to rush it.

He remembered her eyes—how they lingered without meaning to.

Her quiet laugh.

The way she looked away when unsure.

And just before they parted, the way her gaze had met his—steady, lingering, almost saying something she couldn’t yet put into words.

The twilight deepened, the world around him softening into shadow.

He caught his reflection in the glass beside him—blurred by the light, half-real.

「どうしよう…」

(“What should I do…”) 

He murmured.

The city lights shimmered like faraway stars, distant but alive.

And for the first time in a long while, his heart felt the faint ache of something real.

Not heavy, not painful—just quietly waiting for its place to belong.

Headlights rolled up against the curb where Ren sat waiting, phone in hand.

A familiar honk followed—short, impatient.

Atsu leaned out from the driver’s seat, one arm resting on the window.

「早く乗れよ、のろま。」

(“Get in, slowpoke.”)

Ren stood, slinging his small bag over his shoulder before climbing into the passenger seat.

The faint hum of the car stereo filled the silence—some mellow tune playing low enough not to intrude.

「ずいぶん待ってたみたいだね。」

(“You look like you’ve been waiting for hours.”)

Atsu said, glancing sideways as he pulled into traffic.

「たった十分だよ。」

(“Barely ten minutes.”) 

Ren replied, watching the passing streetlights blur into gold lines.

「俺たち、また“女友だち”のほうに行ったかと思ったぞ。」

(“We thought you ditched us for that ‘girl-friend’ of yours.”)

Atsu teased.

Ren exhaled through his nose, a half-laugh slipping out.

「お前、ほんと変わらないな。」

(“You’re not changing, huh?”)

「変わったら俺じゃないだろ。」

(“Wouldn’t be me if I did.”)

The car moved through the evening streets, city lights scattering across the windshield. 

The windows were half-open, letting in the warm air mixed with a faint trace of summer rain.