It happened often enough that Mizuki should have been used to it by now.
Sometimes it was strangers—waitresses with knowing smiles, baristas who handed them one receipt instead of two. Sometimes it was acquaintances, coworkers who had only met Riku once but somehow felt confident enough to ask anyway. And sometimes it was friends, the kind who tilted their heads and squinted as if the truth might reveal itself if they looked hard enough.
"So," someone would say, casual and curious, "are you two dating?"
It always came without warning. No buildup. No apology. Just a simple question, tossed between them like it was harmless.
This time, it was at a friend's birthday gathering, in a small izakaya buzzing with laughter and overlapping conversations. Mizuki sat beside Riku at the counter, their shoulders touching because space was limited and neither of them had moved away.
They were sharing skewers, as usual. He passed her the last one without asking. She took it without thanking him. Routine.
"Wait," Emi said from across the table, eyes flicking between them. "You guys aren't dating, right?"
The table went quiet in that subtle, expectant way that made Mizuki's chest tighten.
Riku laughed.
It was immediate. Easy. Unthinking.
"What? No," he said, still smiling. "We're just friends."
Just friends.
Mizuki felt the words before she processed them. A dull ache, familiar and sharp all at once.
She laughed too. She always did.
"Yeah," she said lightly, waving a hand. "We'd be a disaster."
A lie wrapped in a joke. Everyone laughed. The moment passed.
Conversation picked back up. Someone ordered another round of drinks. The world moved on as if nothing had happened.
Riku leaned closer to her, lowering his voice. "I don't know why people always think that."
"Because we spend a lot of time together," she said, keeping her tone neutral.
He hummed thoughtfully. "I guess. Still weird, though."
Weird.
She nodded. "Yeah. Weird."
He went back to his conversation, unbothered. The question had slid off him like rain, leaving nothing behind.
Mizuki sat there, smiling at the right moments, responding when spoken to. She felt like she was watching herself from somewhere far away, an actress who knew her lines too well.
Later, when the night wound down and people started drifting out in pairs and clusters, Riku walked her outside, hands in his pockets, jacket pulled up against the cold.
"Did you have fun?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said. "It was nice."
He smiled, satisfied. "Good."
They parted the way they always did—easy, affectionate, untouched by anything heavier than routine. He waved once before turning down the street. She waited until he was out of sight before she unlocked her door.
The moment it closed behind her, the smile fell.
Mizuki slid down against the door, knees pulled to her chest, breath coming unevenly. The apartment felt too quiet, too exposed. Her laughter echoed in her head—the way it had come out automatically, obediently, like her heart hadn't even been consulted.
Just friends.
He hadn't hesitated. Not even a fraction of a second. No awkward pause. No uncertainty.
He had denied it the way you denied a misunderstanding. The way you corrected an obvious mistake.
Her hands trembled as she pressed them over her mouth, stifling the sound that tried to escape. Tears blurred her vision, hot and sudden, as if her body had been waiting all night for permission.
She wasn't crying because people asked.
She was crying because, to him, the idea of them wasn't complicated. It wasn't tempting. It wasn't dangerous.
It was laughable.
Mizuki had spent years carefully locking her feelings away, telling herself that silence was safer, that comfort was enough. She had convinced herself that the line between them was fragile, that one wrong step would shatter everything.
But Riku hadn't even seen a line to protect.
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater, breathing shakily. Loving him had taught her how to endure hope without letting it show. Tonight, it taught her something else—how lonely it felt to guard a dream no one else even considered real.
On the floor of her apartment, heart aching and raw, Mizuki finally let herself admit the truth she avoided every day:
He wasn't choosing friendship over love.
He had never been choosing at all.