The sound of wind brushing through the café chimes echoed gently as Tsubame pushed open the door to Kyun's café the next morning.
She wasn't there for tea.
She was there for something else entirely.
"I need help," she said the moment Kyun looked up from behind the counter.
He blinked. "Is this about the amp wiring again?"
"No. Worse," she muttered, marching behind the counter like she owned the place. "I need to learn sign language."
Kyun nearly dropped the tray he was drying.
"You? Sign language?"
Tsubame shot him a look that could crack marble. "Yes. And you're going to help me."
Kyun blinked, then slowly broke into a sly grin. "Ahhh… this is about that boy, isn't it? That one from the train?"
Tsubame flushed slightly, but she didn't deny it.
"His name is Arata," she said, voice quieter now. "He's… different."
Kyun folded his arms and leaned back against the espresso machine. "Different how?"
She hesitated. "He listens… differently. He's quiet but feels everything. And when he looks at me, it's like… like he's seeing past the noise of everything else."
Kyun didn't tease her after that. He just nodded and went to the back.
When he returned, he handed her a small booklet.
Basic JSL: For Beginners
Handwritten notes and doodles filled its pages.
"He taught me a few things when he used to visit here with Umeko," Kyun said. "I'm rusty, but… you'll get it faster than I did."
Tsubame clutched the book like it was a sacred spellbook. And from that moment on, she practiced everywhere—while waiting for her bandmates, while cooking noodles, even while brushing her teeth.
But despite her dedication, her fingers refused to move the way she wanted them to. Her gestures came out sloppy, stiff. She once tried to sign "nice to meet you" and somehow said something closer to "your toilet sings."
She needed a teacher.
So the next weekend, she messaged Umeko through Kyun:
"Can I spend time with Arata? I want to learn. From him."
The answer came fast.
"Of course! I'll even set it up."
---
That Sunday, the sky hung overcast but soft, the sun gently tucked away behind clouds. Tsubame arrived early at the city library garden—an open space with warm benches, rustling trees, and a little koi pond on the far side.
Arata was already there, sitting beneath a plum blossom tree, sketchbook in hand.
He looked up as she approached.
Tsubame raised a hand awkwardly.
It wasn't a wave.
It was supposed to be "hello."
Arata tilted his head. Then smiled and signed it back—his hand graceful, light.
She stared, mesmerized. He repeated it slower. She tried again.
He nodded.
Their first successful word.
She sank into the bench beside him and pulled out Kyun's sign language notebook. He peeked at it and then giggled silently behind his hand.
One page had a big mistake:
"I love the frog inside your grandma."
Her eyes widened. "What?! That's what that said?!"
Arata nodded, giggling harder now.
She looked mortified. "I almost signed that to a café customer yesterday."
He took out his phone and typed:
"You're cute when you panic."
Tsubame paused. Her ears flushed pink.
"Don't say that," she muttered under her breath, voice low.
But he could read her lips. And he just grinned.
He flipped to a blank page in her notebook and began to draw each gesture slowly. One: Hello. Two: Thank you. Three: Sorry. Four: My name is.
Then he signed them slowly for her.
She repeated each one after him, hands trembling slightly.
He guided her fingers once when she fumbled. His hand lightly touched hers, correcting the curve of her thumb.
Tsubame stiffened.
He noticed—and pulled back fast, cheeks red.
But she didn't move away. Instead, she whispered:
"Keep going. It's okay."
So he did.
They practiced for over an hour, laughter and blushing faces filling the space between awkward hand signs and misread expressions.
Then—somewhere between learning "friend" and "music"—Tsubame asked something with her voice.
"Can you… understand me if I speak slowly?"
Arata nodded once.
So she said, carefully: "Do you… draw people often?"
He blinked, then nodded. Slowly reached into his sketchbook.
When he turned the page, her breath caught.
It was her.
A full-body sketch, her hands frozen mid-guitar strum, mouth just open in a soft line—exactly like the way she sang in that train video.
"You remembered… this much?"
He nodded again, but this time, something behind his eyes was softer. Almost apologetic.
He typed:
"I sketch what I feel. You made a loud sound. Even without speaking."
She swallowed. "Loud… sound?"
He nodded.
She looked away, lips pressed together in a line.
"I always thought I was too loud for quiet people," she said after a moment.
Arata didn't answer right away.
Instead, he signed something.
Her brows furrowed.
"What does that mean?"
He typed:
"You're the kind of loud that feels like sunlight. It doesn't hurt. It warms."
Tsubame's lips parted. She didn't know what to say.
So she just sat there, beside him, staring at the koi pond and feeling her heartbeat press against the inside of her chest like it wanted out.
The wind picked up slightly.
She glanced down at her fingers and tried to sign one more thing:
"Thank you."
It came out clumsy.
Arata reached over slowly and helped her adjust it.
Then, without a word, he pulled a small folded paper from his bag.
A drawing.
Of her and him, sitting exactly as they were—beneath the plum blossoms, hands close but not touching.
She took it in her hands. The edges trembled.
"Do you always… draw feelings this clearly?" she whispered.
He smiled.
And then he signed—
"Only when they're about you."
—To Be Continued