Chapter 13: Until We’re Seen

‘To be understood, even in silence—they met in fragments, but stayed once they saw each other whole.’

The apartment was quiet again.

The faint sound of water had long faded, leaving only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the afternoon light spilling through the curtains.

Ren stood for a moment by the hallway, hair still damp, the collar of his shirt slightly wrinkled. 

He looked around as if trying to piece together what had happened—what he’d said, what he’d done. 

The air still felt heavy with something unsaid.

At the table, Arin sat with a cup of tea that had long gone cold. 

She didn’t touch it—just kept her gaze fixed on the small space in front of her, lost somewhere between thought and restraint.

When she heard his quiet footsteps approach, she lifted her eyes.

Ren stopped mid-step. 

Their gazes met—uncertain, searching.

Without speaking, Arin gestured toward the chair across from her.

He hesitated, then slowly took the seat.

For a few seconds, neither spoke. 

The clock ticked faintly in the background, steady and sharp in the silence.

Then Arin finally exhaled, her voice calm but deliberate.

“What do you think of what happened yesterday?”

Ren blinked, caught off guard. 

The words hung in the air—not angry, but clear enough that he couldn’t escape them.

He lowered his gaze, fingers curling against his knee. 

The memory of last night flickered faintly—Atsu’s words, the weight of it all, and the way he’d shown up here uninvited.

Guilt settled in, quiet and familiar.

「…ごめん」

(“...I’m sorry.”) 

He said at last, voice rough.

Arin didn’t respond. 

Her silence wasn’t cold—it was expectant, like she was giving him space to say what he really meant.

Realizing that, Ren continued, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

「…ごめん…ほんとに…迷惑、かけたよね…」

(“I’m sorry… I must’ve been a burden to you.”)

「もう、迷惑かけないって…言ったのに…」

(“I said before I wouldn’t you cause trouble, but…”)

He trailed off, his voice thinning under the weight of his own regret.

Arin tilted her head slightly, her tone even but edged with dry honesty.

“Are you sober yet?”

Ren blinked at the question—not quite sure if she was teasing or serious.

Her tone wasn’t sharp, but something in it cut through his guilt more effectively than any scolding could.

He nodded slowly, eyes still lowered. 

「…うん、…そうだな、」

(“Yeah… I am.”)

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Only the faint ticking of the clock filled the space between them—steady, almost deliberate, as if time itself refused to interfere.

Then, Arin leaned forward slightly. 

Her expression stayed calm, unreadable, as she reached out a hand across the table.

“Your hand.” 

She said quietly.

Ren blinked, uncertain.

The hand that had been resting beneath the table hesitated before slowly rising, as though unsure if he deserved to meet hers. 

He placed it on the table, just close enough for her to reach.

Arin’s fingers brushed against his sleeve first—a light touch, tentative, then steadier. 

She caught the edge of his cuff, holding it between her fingers before letting her hand drift lower, closing gently around his wrist.

Her touch wasn’t firm, but deliberate—a small, grounding weight.

She exhaled softly, her gaze still on his hand, not his face.

Something in her calmness—the faint, almost teasing composure in her movements—broke through the haze in his head.

Ren blinked again, suddenly aware of the warmth in her touch, of the quiet closeness they hadn’t spoken about.

He lowered his gaze, the faintest red tint coloring his ears.

This time, when he looked away, it wasn’t guilt that filled him—but something gentler.

Embarrassment, maybe. Or the slow, unfamiliar comfort of being seen.

Arin watched him quietly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

It wasn’t teasing—just soft, almost fond.

She could tell he was coming back to himself, piece by piece.

The same shy, awkward Ren she’d come to know—the one who flustered easily, who tried too hard not to show how he felt.

Even a small touch, a quiet gesture, was enough to unravel him.

And somehow, that made her chest feel just a little lighter.

Arin leaned back slightly, her hand retreating as her gaze lingered on him.

Her expression softened—the faintest tremor in her voice when she finally spoke.

“You scared me yesterday.”

Ren’s breath hitched.

The words weren’t sharp, but they landed heavier than any reprimand could.

He looked up at her, guilt flickering in his eyes, then down again—unable to hold her gaze for long.

「…そんなつもりじゃ、…なかったんだ、」

(“…I didn’t mean to,”) 

He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.” 

Arin said quietly. Her tone wasn’t angry—just tired, honest.

For a moment, she looked away, tracing the rim of her cup with her thumb.

“I just…” 

She exhaled, the words slow and careful. 

The room fell silent once more—filled only with the sound of two hearts learning, awkwardly but earnestly, how to reach each other again.

He lifted his head just a little, searching her expression.

Her voice wasn’t angry—it was quiet, controlled, but the weight in it made his chest tighten.

“You showed up out of nowhere, barely standing,” 

She continued. 

“And then you apologized like you’d done something unforgivable.”

Her eyes softened, just slightly. 

“You didn’t.”

“But, Ren…” 

She paused, fingers curling around the edge of the table.

Ren blinked, caught off guard by the shift in her tone—soft, but wavering at the edges, like she was thinking aloud more than speaking to him.

Her eyes didn’t meet his at first. 

They were fixed somewhere past him—on the table, the quiet air between them, maybe even on something deeper she couldn’t name.

“I just thought…” 

She murmured, her words slow, deliberate. 

“If we keep seeing each other, one day, I’ll do the same. And when that happens,...”

Ren’s breath stilled. 

He watched her—really watched her—and only then did he notice how her hands trembled faintly against the table.

Her voice dropped lower.

“It’s not easy.” 

She admitted, the words escaping like a sigh.

For a long moment, Ren didn’t know what to say. 

The quiet stretched—not heavy, but fragile, as though the wrong word might break the small, uncertain peace between them.

「…会うってこと？」

(“Seeing each other…?”)

The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them.

He hesitated, then continued, softer now, almost to himself.

「俺は…別に、いいよ。」

(“I… don’t mind it.”)

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, his expression earnest.

「君に会いたい。どんな君を見ても、後悔なんてしないと思う。」

(“I want to see you. I don’t think… I’d ever regret seeing any side of you.”)

「…ほんとに、」

(“really...”) 

His voice low.

Arin smiled lightly, trying to brush it off—but the way her lips trembled gave her away.

“Ren…” 

She said, almost whispering.

Her voice carried something between a sigh and a plea. 

“Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”

「本気だよ。」

(“I meant it.”)

The words left him before she could finish. 

His tone was calm, but sure—like he had finally made peace with the weight of it.

「言葉のひとつひとつ、本気で言ってる。」

(“I mean every word.”)

He leaned forward again, eyes searching for hers.

「君のことが好きだ。最初から、ずっと。」

(“I like you. I’ve liked you since the start.”)

「それで、昨日…」

(“And yesterday—”) 

His voice faltered briefly, then steadied again.

「…あんなふうに行ったのは、何も考えてなかった。ただ…どこか、ちゃんとした場所にいたかったんだ。全部が壊れていくような気がして。」

(“—when I showed up like that, I wasn’t thinking. I just… needed to be somewhere real. Somewhere that didn’t feel like everything was falling apart.”)

Arin didn’t answer right away. 

Her eyes were on him—steady, unreadable.

But the silence between them was no longer sharp.

“Ren…” 

She began softly. 

“You always say things so suddenly. You leave people no room to hide.”

He let out a small breath of a laugh. 

「だったら、隠れないで。」

(“Then don’t hide.”)

She blinked, her lips parting slightly.

「隠れないで。」

(“Don’t hide.”) 

He repeated, quieter now. 

「君の全部を見たい。隠してるところも、見せたくないと思うところも、全部。」

(“I want to see you. All of you. Even the parts you think I shouldn’t.”)

Something in her gaze shifted then—the guarded wall she always kept around herself began to slip.

Her hand, still resting on the table, turned slightly, palm open—a quiet invitation.

Ren reached across the table, hesitating just a breath before his fingers brushed hers.

Her skin was warm.

And that single touch was enough to pull both of them back to the same heartbeat.

Arin exhaled, the sound trembling through the air.

“I’m not good with this,” 

She admitted, barely audible. 

“I don’t know how to make it easy.”

「楽なのはいらない。」

(“I don’t need easy.”) 

Ren said. His voice was steady now. 

「ただ…本当のものがほしい。」

(“Just… real.”)

She looked at him—truly looked—and something in her softened.

Then, finally, she smiled.

“…Then stay,” 

She said.

“If you mean it — stay.”

Ren’s lips curved, slow and certain. 

「…行かない。どこにも。」

(“...I’m not, going anywhere.”)

Their joined hands stayed still between them—the quietest promise, the kind that didn’t need any more words.

The room felt different after that—lighter somehow, as if the air had finally exhaled too.

Neither of them spoke for a while. They didn’t need to.

Ren’s thumb brushed over the back of her hand, small, absent circles.

Arin didn’t pull away—she only watched their hands, the contrast of his calloused skin against her own, and thought how strange it was that something so simple could feel this grounding.

Outside, the sunlight had shifted—warm and golden, spilling faintly across the table between them.

The light caught in Ren’s hair, in the soft curve of his smile—not the usual polite one, but something unguarded, real.

Arin’s lips curved, just slightly. 

“You’re really staying, huh.”

Ren let out a quiet laugh through his nose. 

「君がそう言ったんだ。」

(“You told me to.”)

She rolled her eyes, but it didn’t hide the faint color rising in her cheeks.

「もう取り消さないで。」

(“Don’t take it back now,”) 

He added, teasing, but gentle.

Her gaze lifted to meet his again—steady this time.

「しないよ。」

(“I won’t.”)

The words hung there between them, soft as a breath—and somehow, it was enough.

When the clock ticked again, the sound no longer filled the silence; it simply moved with it.

The afternoon drifted on quietly, the world outside forgotten for a while—just two people sitting side by side, finally unafraid to be seen.

After their moment settled into a quiet calm, Ren glanced up and asked softly,

「もう食べた？」

(“Have you eaten yet?”)

Arin shook her head. 

“Not yet.”

「じゃあ、何か作るよ。」

(“Then I’ll make something,”) 

He said, pushing his chair back with a small grin.

He headed toward the kitchen—only to pause halfway through. 

The cupboards were half-empty, the fridge nearly bare. He turned slowly toward her, brows raised.

「…ここで本当に料理するの？」

(“...Do you actually cook here?”)

Arin blinked, caught off guard. 

“Sometimes.”

「たまに、ね？」

(“Sometimes, yeah?..”) 

He repeated, opening the fridge door with mock seriousness. 

「水もほとんどないじゃん。何食べて生きてんの、空気とコンビニパン？」

(“There’s barely even water in here. What do you live on, air and convenience store bread?”)

Arin huffed, crossing her arms, but the corners of her lips twitched. 

“You don’t get to judge me now.”

Ren chuckled, the sound light and unguarded. 

「まー、ね。」

(“Well, okay..”)

For the first time that day, the room filled with something simple—laughter, easy and unforced, echoing softly between them.

Ren opened the cabinets again, rummaging with a little more determination this time.

「えっと…ご飯、しょうゆ……あ、卵もある。」

(“Let’s see… rice, soy sauce… oh, — eggs.”)

Arin leaned against the doorway, watching him with mild amusement. 

“You’re really doing this?”

He looked over his shoulder. 

「なに、私の腕を疑ってるの？」

(“What, doubting my skills now?”)

“Who knows?.. Maybe you give up halfway?...” 

Her tone teasing.

Ren grinned faintly. 

「一人暮らし、もう結構長いからね。」

(“I have been living by myself for a while.”)

Arin chuckled, walking closer to hand him a small pan from the lower cabinet. 

Their fingers brushed briefly, and both of them paused—just for a heartbeat—before he turned back to the counter.

The sound of water running, the soft clink of utensils, the faint hiss of the stove—they filled the space between them in a quiet rhythm.

It wasn’t awkward anymore. 

Just… gentle. Familiar.

Ren stirred the pan absentmindedly. 

「ねえ、」

(“You know..”) 

He said, voice low but calm.

「前はさ、人のために料理するなんて、正直めんどうだと思ってたんだ。」

(“I used to think cooking for someone would feel like a chore.”)

Arin tilted her head. 

“And now?”

He glanced at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

「今は…なんか、いいなって思う。」

(“Now it just feels… nice.”)

She didn’t reply right away—just watched the steam rise between them, soft and warm like the morning light that filtered in through the curtains.

“…Really?,” 

She said finally, almost in a whisper.

The room had quieted again, their laughter lingering faintly in the air.

Ren set the frying pan aside, sliding the freshly made omurice onto a plate. 

The aroma of butter and ketchup filled the small kitchen—simple, comforting.

Arin watched from her seat, chin resting on her hand. 

“You actually made that,” 

She murmured, half teasing.

Ren chuckled. 

「悪くないだろ？」

(“Not bad right?.”)

“Maybe?,” 

She admitted, smiling faintly. 

“Didn’t think you could cook.”

He shrugged, placing the plate in front of her. 

「君になら、任せてほしい。」

(“You can leave it to me..”)

She picked up the spoon, took a bite — then paused.

“…It’s good.” 

She said finally, looking up at him.

Ren grinned, relief flickering across his face. 

「どうも。うれしいです。」

(“Thank you, I’m happy to hear that.”) 

His tone teasing.

They ate quietly after that, the sound of clinking spoons blending with the hum of the afternoon.

The sunlight stretched thin across the window, turning everything soft and golden.

When they finished, Arin leaned back in her chair, tracing idle circles on the edge of her plate.

Ren caught himself smiling, faint but real.

Maybe it was the food, or the warmth of the room—or maybe it was just her, sitting there across from him, in the quiet that no longer felt lonely.

The clock ticked on.

The light shifted.

And in that small kitchen—with empty plates, faint laughter, and the scent of warm omurice—two people simply stayed, quietly learning what it meant to share the same moment.

Her eyes softened, and for a second, neither of them needed to say anything more.