A few days had passed since that quiet evening in the kitchen. The atmosphere between Ryo and Miyu had subtly shifted. She still acted distant, still kept her walls up—but she no longer rushed out after her shifts. Sometimes she lingered in the staff room, sipping tea in silence. Sometimes she stood quietly near the kitchen door, watching Ryo work with that unreadable expression.
To the rest of the staff, it meant nothing. But to Ryo, it was everything.
One rainy afternoon, when the restaurant was quiet and the gray skies hung low, Ryo was in the kitchen working on a new dish. He wanted to create something that spoke from the heart—something warm, layered, and a little complex. Something that, in some way, reflected her.
But two versions in, and he still wasn't satisfied.
As he adjusted the plating for the third try, he noticed a quiet presence beside him. Miyu.
She glanced at the dish, her tone as flat as ever. "It looks pretty."
"But it doesn't taste like anything," Ryo replied honestly.
Miyu picked up a small spoon, tasted it, and gave a soft hum. Her face remained unreadable.
"It's good," she said after a pause. "But… it's too safe. Doesn't feel like you."
Ryo blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You usually take risks," she continued, looking at the dish instead of him. "This feels like you're holding back. Like you're trying not to offend anyone."
He stared at the food in silence. She was right.
"Sometimes you have to cook how you feel," Miyu added, her voice lower now. "Not just cook to please."
Her words—though quiet and casual—struck deeper than anything his father or the head chef had ever told him.
"Thanks," Ryo murmured.
Miyu grabbed her jacket and prepared to leave. Just before stepping through the door, she paused and turned slightly.
"When you figure out what you're really feeling, cooking will get easier."
And then she left—leaving Ryo alone with his unfinished dish, his thoughts, and a strange sense that he had just been handed the missing ingredient he'd been searching for all along: truth.