Her house smelled like lemon polish and old paper. Too clean. The air felt stiff. Kenji wiped his shoes on the mat. Twice. He still felt dirty.
Aoi opened the door. She was different here. Smaller. Shoulders hunched. She wore a proper shirt. Buttoned. "Hey," she said. Quiet.
"Hey."
Her father stood in the hallway. A tall man. Glasses. A frown that looked permanent. He didn't offer a hand. Just a look. Up and down. "You are Kenji."
"Yes, sir."
"You live in the Kita complex."
It wasn't a question. It was a label. The Kita complex. Concrete. Peeling paint. Small rooms. Kenji nodded. Felt his neck get hot.
"Dinner is at seven," her father said. Turned. Walked away. The sound of his slippers on the polished floor was an accusation.
Aoi grabbed his sleeve. Pulled him toward the stairs. "My room."
It was neat. A museum. Books arranged by height. A single window. No posters. A desk with a green lamp. It didn't look like her. It looked like a guest room.
"Sit," she whispered. Pointed to the bed. A blue cover. Stiff.
He sat. The bed didn't give. "Your dad..."
"Forget it."
"My mom wanted to meet you," he said. A lie. His mom didn't care. His dad was gone again. The apartment smelled like cabbage and stale smoke.
"Don't," she said. Sharp. "Just... don't."
She paced. Two steps. Turn. Two steps. A caged thing. "They want to see who you are. That's all. They're just looking."
He knew what they saw. Second-hand jacket. Hair too long. Scuffed shoes. The son of a man who disappeared and a woman who cried. A problem.
Downstairs, her mother called. Voice like a bell. Clear. Cold.
They went down. The dining table was long. Wood so dark it looked black. Bowls of food. Steaming. Everything in its place.
They ate in silence. The clink of chopsticks on ceramic. Loud. Her father asked him three questions.
School. (Average.)
Future plans. ("Not sure.")
Father's profession. ("He travels.")
Each answer made the room colder. Her mother smiled. A thin, tight line. "Aoi is focused on her studies. Law is a demanding path."
Kenji nodded. Ate rice. It stuck in his throat.
Aoi didn't look up. Just pushed fish around her bowl.
After dinner, her father said Kenji should go. Early. School night.
Aoi walked him to the door. The hallway was dark. They stood in the shadow.
"See?" she hissed. Voice low. Angry. Not at him. At everything. "This is it. This is them."
"I'm sorry," he said. For what, he didn't know.
"Don't be." She grabbed his hand. Squeezed. Hard. "Tomorrow. The roof. Us. Not this."
He nodded. Couldn't speak.
Outside, the air was cheap and free. He breathed. Deep. His bike was where he left it. He pedaled fast. Away from the lemon smell. The polished floors. The heavy, judging silence.
His own building smelled of fried food and wet concrete. He took the stairs two at a time. His mom was on the couch. Asleep. TV flashing blue on her face. An empty glass on the floor.
He went to his room. Closed the door. Sat on his bed. The mattress sagged. He still felt the ghost of her perfect, stiff bed under him.
Two worlds. Hers: quiet, ordered, full of expectations. His: messy, loud, full of absence.
The roof was the only place they made sense. The only neutral ground. But the world was pulling. Her father's frown. His own empty fridge. Her future in Kyoto. His future in a dead-end job he couldn't even name.
The friction was starting. A low heat. The first smell of smoke before the fire.
He lay back. Stared at the crack in his ceiling. It looked like a river on a map. Going nowhere.
He thought of her hand. Squeezing his in the dark hallway. A silent scream.
He thought of the promise. The car. The escape. It felt smaller now. Farther away. Like a story someone told him. A dream he was forgetting.
The seams were pulling. He could hear the threads stretch. A thin, whining sound.
Only in his head, maybe. But it was there.