One

Ines really came back.

Someone lifted the plastic curtain at the back door. Cold air slipped through first, then her. Her cap was pulled low, a sports bag slung over her shoulder. The lock of hair over her forehead was still wet, its ends dampening the collar of her uniform jacket.

Standing in the doorway, she checked the rota on the wall before looking up.

“Sorry—I’m not late, am I?”

The manager was crouching beside a cardboard box, peeling off tape. He didn’t even look up.

“No, no, perfect timing. We need someone on the drinks fridge.”

As though nothing had happened.

The television above the till was playing a replay of the Asahi Hai, its volume turned low. On-screen, Ines Fujin came out of the bend, lifting her knees high, charging ahead at an utterly unreasonable speed. Before the captions had finished scrolling, the Ines behind the plastic curtain had put her bag in her locker and bent down to tie her apron.

Standing beside the hot-food cabinet, I put a whole row of freshly stocked rice balls in crooked.

She clipped her name badge in the wrong place. The metal clip slipped down and tapped her chest.

I walked over and fixed it for her.

She radiated heat today. Not shampoo, not stale sweat—the heat of someone who had run all the way back, heat even a shower couldn’t wash away. Up close, even the skin behind her ears was warm.

“You won, and you still came back to work.”

She blinked, then gave a small smile.

“I’m on the rota.”

“…It was the Asahi Hai.”

“The Asahi Hai is today. My night shift is today too.”

She pulled a plastic crate full of bentos to her feet, took it in both hands, and lifted it in one impossibly clean movement. As if the race that afternoon weren’t news, weren’t a Grade 1, weren’t something people were replaying on television, but simply another thing she’d got done that day.

At last the manager looked up, beaming.

“Well, we’ve got a famous Uma Musume working here now.”

Ines’s ears went red at once.

“Don’t say it like that, boss…”

She was already crouching to tidy the bottom shelf as she spoke. Her apron brushed her calves, her knee against the floor tiles, just like every other night spent rushing to restock.

Suddenly I wanted to smash the television.

The person surrounded by cheers on that screen and the person kneeling in front of me, arranging mineral water, were the same person.

That was the cruelest part of all.

She worked all night.

Carrying boxes, stocking shelves, ringing up purchases, finding cigarettes for customers, stamping my flattened cardboard down for me as she passed. She’d just run a major race, but her fingers were steady and she didn’t get a single product code wrong. Only once, when she turned to reach for the energy drinks on the top shelf, did her shoulder pause for half a second.

I saw it.

She knew I had. After taking them down, she smiled at me first.

“I’m fine. I can keep going.”

Who asked you?

I swallowed the rest. My throat tasted bitter.

At the early-morning handover, the television finally went off. The manager left first; another senior coworker rode away on a bicycle. I was alone in the staff room. One chair leg was missing a piece, and the old air conditioner against the wall kept dripping into a plastic bucket. Drip, drip, drip. Maddening.

I sat there with my apron scrunched between my hands.

It smelled entirely of the shop. Oil from the hot-food cabinet, cardboard dust, sweetness leaking from the coffee machine, and a little dampness she’d left on the fabric when she passed me.

I hadn’t meant to cry.

I really hadn’t.

But two images kept fighting inside my head: Ines Fujin crossing the finish line on television, and Ines bending to pick up a straw wrapper from the floor and tossing it into the bin.

I’d thought we were on the same side.

She worked part-time too. She rushed to her night shifts. When the restocking list was too long, she complained, “Why is there so much today?” She held doors open with her shoulder while carrying boxes, flicked coins quickly across her palm when counting, got so busy she couldn’t even wipe her forehead.

I’d been using all of that to fool myself.

To tell myself she wasn’t so far away.

Then the television today had slapped me senseless.

Of course we weren’t on the same side.

She could win.

She could have her name shouted in places like that, be surrounded, be praised, run toward somewhere bigger. Today it was the Asahi Hai; tomorrow there would be other races, more people remembering her. Her trainer, teammates, reporters, fans, everyone from the academy clapping in the stands—she would keep moving forward. She would meet so, so many people.

And me?

I was just a name on the night-shift rota.

A person she said “Thanks for your hard work” to when she came back.

Someone she’d once helped by closing a storeroom door.

Even standing in front of the television to be happy for her felt like standing too close.

Tears fell onto my apron, making patches of dark and light. I buried my face in it and drew my shoulders in, as though hiding between cardboard boxes.

Pathetic.

But I couldn’t stop.

“…Not good enough.”

I said it into the crumpled apron.

The fabric muffled my voice so much I could barely hear it myself.

“I’m not nearly good enough for her…”

When she’d come back to take over today, there had actually been a second when I thought I could hold on to her.

Just because she’d said, “I’m not late, am I?”

Just because she was still warm.

I curled up tighter, forehead against my knees, crying until my eyes hurt. The staff-room light was white and pitiless on the rota.

Ines Fujin’s name was still there under tomorrow’s night shift.

I stared at that line for a long time, and the tears started again.

It was precisely because she would come back that I couldn’t cope.

If she’d flown somewhere beyond my reach today, I could have accepted it.

But she would come back anyway.

She would push through that back door, bringing the wind and the heat she couldn’t shake after a run, stand in front of me, and ask—

“Let’s have a good shift?”

How was anyone supposed to survive that?

Two

I didn’t go straight home after work.

The pavement outside still held the day’s heat. The automatic doors opened and closed, blowing cold air out as though telling people to leave. I stood at the Lawson across the road and stared into its fridge for ages before taking a lemon Strong Zero, nine percent. Two high-school students at the till were choosing fried chicken and pudding, laughing loudly.

When I put down my money, the cashier asked if I wanted a bag.

“No.”

My own voice startled me. It was horribly hoarse.

At home I shut the front door, kicked my shoes into a corner, and let my bag fall to the floor without putting it away. The studio was a little section cut from a box. My bed was a mess, yesterday’s bento container still on the table. The refrigerator hummed. A train passed outside and the window trembled.

I stood in the middle of the room, still gripping the drink.

The pull tab snapped open with a sound that was much too sharp.

I took a mouthful. Sour enough to be bitter. The alcohol rose, burning my throat. Usually I thought this stuff tasted like death; today it felt just right. Worse would have been fine too. Best if it could burn something out of me.

I sat on the floor against the bed. My second gulp was too fast. I choked, coughed for ages, and the tears came straight down.

So embarrassing.

I wasn’t even the one with the biggest reason to cry today.

I hadn’t won. I hadn’t stood under those lights. Nobody had called my name. Yet here I was, curled up in this miserable room, crying over a can of Strong Zero.

“…Ines-chan.”

Saying her name made my chest hurt.

No.

I couldn’t call her that. The more I said it, the more real it sounded.

But I couldn’t stop anymore.

When she’d returned today, her cap had been pulled low, her hair still wet, her apron fastened wrong, her ears bright red. When she’d stood by the back door asking whether she was late, I’d almost believed it. Almost thought: Ah, this person will still come back. We’ll still restock together, close out the night shift together, stand by the hot-food cabinet grumbling, “Sold out again?”

Almost.

I’d almost managed to fool myself completely.

I pressed the can to my forehead. It was painfully cold.

How could she possibly keep coming back?

Today was the Asahi Hai. There would be bigger races after this. Someone would hand her a towel, celebrate her victories, stand beside her and say she’d done well. Her trainer, classmates, someone close to her in the dorms—there would always be somebody nearer to her than me.

Maybe—

The thought had barely begun when the tears fell hard.

“…No.”

I rubbed my face with the back of my hand. The more I wiped, the more there were.

“Can’t think about that.”

Couldn’t think about her not coming back.

Couldn’t think about her name disappearing from the night-shift rota one day.

Couldn’t think about someone taking her out to celebrate a win, saying, “Don’t go to work today.” Couldn’t think about her smiling at someone else like that. Couldn’t think about her having a girlfriend someday, someone who felt the warmth after her runs before I did, someone who straightened her crooked name badge, someone who reached up to pat her head when she said, “I’m on the rota.”

No.

Thinking about it made me cry.

It really did.

I buried my face in my knees, still holding the can. The aluminum crackled under my fingers. With nobody else in the room, my crying sounded especially stupid, like a broken little animal.

“But…”

I drew a breath. My throat was full of alcohol.

“But I liked her first.”

I couldn’t remember when it had started. Maybe the first time she covered my shift. Maybe when she lifted a brutally heavy crate, then looked back and said, “Don’t push yourself.” Or further back, when she’d run to work in the rain and stood behind the till with wet uniform cuffs, sneezing between product codes.

By the time I noticed, it was too late anyway.

I remembered her back in front of the shelves, her rolled-up sleeves while restocking, the beads of water on her hand when she took a drink from the fridge, the way her fingertips lightly touched the counter as she pushed change toward a customer.

I even remembered how her smile was smaller when she was tired.

I knew those things. Only I knew those things.

So what?

Knowing she slipped straw wrappers into her pocket didn’t mean I could stand beside her. Knowing she moved her left hand first when lifting something heavy didn’t mean she would stay. Knowing she smelled of sweat and wind as well as shampoo didn’t make her mine.

Mine.

The word stopped me for two seconds. Then I cried harder.

“She’s not mine…”

My forehead pressed into my knees. My muffled voice shook.

“She was never mine…”

But that was how I thought anyway.

I secretly rejoiced when she came back. Wanted to push people away when they praised her. Felt my stomach twist with jealousy when she was kind to everyone, smiled at everyone. Wanted her a little more tired, a little more dependent on this place. Wanted her here tomorrow, the day after, next month. After winning, after losing. Always with her name badge on, always ducking through the back door, always saying—

“Let’s have a good shift.”

It was an awful thought.

Awful enough to make me sick.

I knew the further she ran, the better.

And still I was crying like this because she might run out of my sight.

Half the Strong Zero remained, no longer cold. I took another gulp, its bitterness numbing the back of my tongue. My phone lay dark on the floor. I stared at it for ages and didn’t touch it.

I couldn’t message her.

What would I say?

“Congratulations on winning the Asahi Hai”?

Too distant.

“Are you still coming to work tomorrow”?

Too disgusting.

“I’m so scared you’ll never come back”?

I couldn’t possibly say that.

I turned the phone face down on the floor.

Another train passed. The room shuddered. Hugging my knees, I curled in slowly, until even my toes ached.

In the end I said the most hopeless thing of all.

So quietly it sounded like a plea for nobody to hear.

“…Ines-chan. Come back.”

Then the tears fell again.

Three

The next morning, my phone vibrating woke me up.

Not the alarm.

That had rung long ago. After finishing the last half-can of Strong Zero, I’d fallen asleep on the floor hugging my coat. My face was creased when I woke. Through a gap in the curtains, cold white morning light cut straight across the phone screen.

Her name was at the top of the notifications.

Ines Fujin.

I sat bolt upright and hit the back of my head on the bed frame, hard enough for my vision to go black.

“—Ow.”

The phone vibrated again.

I fumbled for it. My fingers were sweaty as I unlocked it; I nearly entered the wrong passcode.

The first message was at 6:12.

“Thanks for yesterday—! I got back, showered, and totally passed out lol”

The second, 6:13.

“Were you feeling a little strange yesterday?”

The third, also 6:13.

“Did I do something to upset you? (;_; )”

A little crooked-mouth crying face followed.

I stared at the line. My chest contracted sharply.

She’d noticed.

I wasn’t imagining things. It wasn’t alcohol wrecking my brain. She had really noticed. Noticed I was avoiding her, noticed I sounded wrong yesterday, noticed I hadn’t even looked at her when passing over change.

Now I was completely finished.

I pressed the phone to my chest and fell backward into the untidy bedding. My eyes, aching from last night’s crying, burned again. My head was full of noise.

Why was she asking me this?

Wasn’t training keeping her busy? Hadn’t she just won the Asahi Hai? Shouldn’t she be surrounded by congratulations, having her next plans arranged by her trainer, being pulled into conversations by friends in the dorms?

Why was this what she asked me first thing in the morning?

I lifted the phone again.

The fourth message appeared.

6:15.

“I’m not making you tell me! It’s just… when you don’t talk to me, it bothers me”

A tiny red heart followed that last part.

I stared at the heart and froze.

No.

No, wait.

This was how she always talked. Her voice floated at the ends of sentences, her messages ended in tildes, she was friendly to everyone. Hearts and emoji were normal. Perfectly normal. In the shop’s group chat, she could send “Thanks for your hard work ♡” to the coworker who always messed up the rota, or tell the manager’s child, “More sweets next time ♪”

I knew.

I knew all of that.

Knowing was one thing. Seeing it arrive in my own chat window was another thing entirely.

I buried my face in the pillow and screamed.

The sound was completely muffled, like I was suffocating myself.

“I can’t…”

I really couldn’t.

If I kept looking, I’d lose my mind.

The phone vibrated again.

Number five.

“Morning practice is over! Going to get breakfast now~”

Number six.

“Message me when you’re awake?”

Number seven.

“Good-morning kiss ( ˘ ³˘)♥”

I rolled straight off the bed.

“—AAAAAAAAAAAH!!”

My knee hit the floor. I curled into a ball from the pain, still clutching the phone. The words “Good-morning kiss” with that puckered-lips face felt like being pushed into hot water. Not a quick scald—nowhere for any part of me to hide.

What was she doing?

Did she even know what she was doing?

Or did she know exactly?

I sat on the floor breathing hard for ages. All I could see was her at the back door yesterday, hair not yet dry, ears red. Her “I’m on the rota” had been soft. Her messages were softer still, brushing past my collarbone, and somehow every one landed precisely.

I looked at my own chat box. Empty. Not a single reply.

That was far too suspicious.

A normal coworker wouldn’t go twenty minutes without replying. A normal person receiving crying faces and hearts would at least say, “No, you’re fine.” But I had no idea what to write.

“No”?

A lie.

“You’re overthinking it”?

An even bigger lie.

“Last night I cried like an idiot over a Strong Zero because I imagined you having another girlfriend someday”?

I’d sooner throw myself off the building.

I put the phone face down again, regretted it a second later, and lunged to pick it up, terrified I’d broken the screen.

The first thing I did after picking it up was tap her profile picture.

The chat background was unchanged: a photo she’d sent of the cat outside the shop. In her profile photo she smiled at the camera, her uniform collar slightly crooked. Clearly nothing carefully posed. The more casual, the more fatal.

My finger hovered over the keyboard. Eventually I typed:

“Sorry, I was a bit tired yesterday”

Deleted it.

Tried again:

“I’m not upset”

Deleted that too.

In the end, only the most hopeless reply remained:

“Just woke up”

When I sent it, my heart was pounding in my ears.

Her reply was absurdly fast.

“You’re awake!!!”

“Hungover? (?)”

“Your face was so red yesterday lol”

“I was a little worried, so I messaged you first”

Then another, right after it.

“Don’t avoid me today, okay”

No full stop. A smiley face and a little pink heart.

My brain buzzed.

She knew.

She absolutely knew.

Not that I’d drunk Strong Zero, not that my mood had been strange yesterday. Something further inside. Why I couldn’t look at her. Why I couldn’t say a single word of congratulations. Why I’d nearly crushed the plastic tray in front of the shelves.

She knew, and she sent that anyway.

Hugging the phone, I slowly curled up beside the bed. My ears were frighteningly hot. Last night’s bitter, suffocating misery hadn’t entirely gone, but now something worse was mixed into it. As though someone had lifted me by the scruff of my neck, leaving nowhere to run.

I tapped the heart she’d sent and stared at it pointlessly for two seconds.

Back out. Into “Good-morning kiss.”

Back out again.

Into it again.

I thought I was beyond saving.

Last night I’d been crying, “I’m not good enough.” This morning I was scrolling back and forth through our chat, murmuring every word she’d sent. By the third reading I could hear the lilt of her voice, even picture her smiling as she typed.

“…Ines-chan.”

I said it very softly, as though I’d stolen the name.

Her last “Don’t avoid me” stayed on the glowing screen. It wasn’t even an order, yet a shiver went down my spine.

Finished.

Completely finished.

Yesterday I’d thought I needed to keep my distance, get myself under control, press my feelings back down before the fall killed me someday. Then this morning she’d sent one kiss, one heart, one “Don’t avoid me,” and I’d immediately become this.

Pathetic.

So pathetic I wanted to laugh at myself.

I buried my face in my hands and laughed twice. Then I started burning again, and finally rolled over beside the bed with my phone clutched against me, like a lunatic.

I crawled back up, stared at the input box, and slowly typed.

“I’m not avoiding you”

Deleted it. Changed it to:

“…Okay”

After sending it, I sat staring blankly at the screen.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

She sent a sticker.

A little character spinning around with a heart in its arms. Beside it:

“Love you most—♪”

My hand shook. The phone hit the floor.

This time I didn’t pick it up immediately.

First I covered my face, fell backward, and let out a tiny, utterly defeated whimper.

“I can’t… I really can’t…”

Even as I said it, my feet were already pushing against the floor to reach the phone.

Four

By the afternoon, I no longer felt human.

I’d barely touched lunch and drunk plenty of water, but none of it helped with the chaotic heat. Before leaving, I adjusted my fringe three times in the mirror, realized I was acting deranged, and hastily dropped my hand. My phone stayed in my pocket the whole way. There were no new messages, but I still touched it every ten steps.

When I pushed open the shop door, cold air hit my face.

The manager looked up from his accounts behind the counter.

“You’re early.”

“…Yeah.”

I shoved my bag into my locker, changed into my apron, and tied its knot wrong twice. My palms were sweating. I’d nearly crumpled the fabric. She wasn’t even here and I was already nervous. Hopeless.

I stood restocking the drinks fridge, replaying her morning messages.

“Don’t avoid me today, okay”

“Love you most—♪”

Love you most.

Love you most.

Love you most of all.

I placed the energy drinks one by one, labels facing forward. At the seventh bottle, the plastic curtain rustled at the back door.

I went rigid.

Then she came in.

Ines Fujin wasn’t wearing a cap today. Her hair was tied a little higher, loose strands against her ears. She’d probably just finished practice. Her uniform jacket hung over her arm; underneath, a thin T-shirt clearly outlined her shoulders. Her face was still warm, the breath of her run not yet settled. Opening the door, she brought in a little gust of outside air.

She saw me first.

The next second, her eyes lit up.

Really. Unfairly bright.

“Ah—”

She waved, her voice lifting.

“You’re here already!”

I nearly dropped the bottle.

Something went bang in my head, clean and decisive. If someone had pried open my eyelids just then, they’d probably have found two flashing pink hearts instead of pupils. Complete with sound effects.

Finished.

I was really finished.

She stuffed her jacket into her locker and came over in a few steps. Close enough for me to smell that clean warmth: showered, freshly run, with a hint of sunshine. She glanced at the half-stocked shelf, then at my face.

“You’re so red.”

“The air conditioning’s too strong.”

Straight out of my mouth.

“Really—?” Her mouth curved. She didn’t believe a word of it.

“It’s nice and cool here.”

So you do know.

Then could you stop standing so close?

I pushed the last bottle to the back too hard. The plastic tray clacked. She watched me, smiling even more, and tilted her head as though she’d caught something.

“You answered me this morning.”

“…Yeah.”

“I was happy.”

Soft and direct, as if the words were meant just for my ear. Even my neck grew hot. My fingers curled in. I could only look down and keep stocking, pretending to have a scholarly interest in mineral-water labels.

She wouldn’t let me off.

“And you said ‘okay.’”

“…Yeah.”

“So you won’t avoid me anymore?”

I couldn’t take it.

I put down the empty box and turned toward her. That made it worse. She was watching me, eyes bright, not hiding a bit of that curved smile. It wasn’t her usual friendly customer-service smile. This one was mischievous, waiting specifically for my reaction.

My heart gave a violent jump.

Nothing poetic about it. An utterly tasteless jumble of “Oh no, she’s so cute today” and “I can’t, I’m going to die.”

After a long struggle, all I managed was:

“Don’t talk like that.”

Her eyes widened.

“Like what?”

Still pretending.

You’re still pretending.

My ears were hot enough to fry eggs. I turned away and picked up a box of tea, pretending to be busy. It was heavy. Before I’d properly lifted it, her hands were there.

“I’ll take this.”

“You don’t—”

“You helped me yesterday. My turn today.”

She took it before I had room to react. Her arms tightened as she lifted, strength showing through her shoulders. I stood watching. The hearts in my head weren’t popping up anymore. They’d opened the floodgates and started setting off fireworks.

Fatal.

She put the box on the trolley, turned, smiled, and added:

“You’re being so good today.”

I nearly sank into a crouch on the spot.

Good?

Who was being good?

Could you please not say that in a convenience store to someone being driven mad by her crush on you?

The manager coughed in the distance, as though suppressing a laugh. Two customers came to the till. I escaped to scan their purchases. Even behind the counter, I could still feel her looking at me. Not staring—just a glance drifting over now and then. Each one made the two hearts in my head bounce. Hopeless.

Giving change, I mixed up the ten-yen and fifty-yen coins.

After the customer left, she poked her head around the shelves.

“Are you really okay—?”

She drew the last word out.

I looked up to glare at her. She laughed aloud, holding a row of freshly stocked canned coffees, looking unbearably happy.

“What are you laughing at…?”

“You’re just so cute today.”

Everything went dark.

That was it.

I had truly, completely, with nothing left to spare, become a lovesick fool.

Five

Before we finished that day, Ines Fujin leaned out from behind the till and asked quietly:

“Are you free tonight?”

I was holding change. I nearly flicked a ten-yen coin across the shop.

“…I am.”

“Good.”

She nodded, as though settling something major. Her eyes were dazzling.

“Come out with me after work.”

Come out with me.

She said it lightly. Every string inside me pulled taut.

I had no idea how I got through the second half of the shift. My head was full of those words. She kept stocking, kept saying, “Welcome!”, kept stamping down flattened boxes. Only when she passed me did she deliberately bump my elbow, or draw a sentence out a little.

“Stop daydreaming—”

“Pass me that, would you—”

“You’re being really good today.”

She’d nearly left me breathless. Even the manager couldn’t take it anymore. While cashing up, he coughed.

“Ah, to be young.”

My ears flared.

Ines just smiled openly without even looking down. Later, while changing after work, she called around a locker door:

“Hurry up, okay?”

Finished.

Who could withstand this?

---

It was dark when we left. The vending machines glowed blue beside the street; the shop sign cast a white patch across the pavement. She’d changed out of her training clothes into a plain thin knit top and a short jacket, her hair loosened a little, its ends resting on her shoulders.

So ordinary.

As ordinary as any girl meeting someone after work.

And precisely because of that, more dangerous.

I walked beside her, afraid even to take big steps. She checked her phone casually, then looked up.

“Taking the train is okay for you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I checked—we’ll get there at just the right time.”

Get where?

I turned toward her.

“Where are we going?”

She put her phone away and smiled.

“Secret.”

I opened my mouth to tell her to stop it. She’d already run two steps toward the ticket gates, then turned back to hurry me along.

“Come on, come on.”

I had to follow.

The platform was windy. Behind the yellow line, she brushed her hair behind her ear. As the train arrived, its lights swept in from the end of the tracks and lit her up. Standing beside her, I felt something deeply unreal.

Yesterday I’d been crying over Strong Zero in my miserable apartment. Today I was waiting for a train with her.

And she’d asked me out.

The carriage wasn’t crowded. She pulled me to a place beside the doors. Two swaying stops later, she took two sweets from her bag and put one in my palm.

“For you.”

“…Why?”

“You’re too nervous.”

“Who’s nervous?”

She smiled without calling me out, unwrapped her own sweet, and put it in her mouth.

I looked at the one in my palm, its wrapper reflecting the carriage lights. Even something this small could make my head spin. Hopeless.

After we left the station, I began to suspect something.

This wasn’t a neighborhood we usually came to. Bright streetlights, rows of glass windows, uniformed staff at the doors. Even the air cost more than it did on the street by our shop. Ines walked ahead with her usual light step, as though hurrying to a night shift. I slowed down until finally I tugged at her.

“Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“Where exactly are you taking me?”

She stopped and turned. The streetlight fell over her shoulder. Her eyes were still bright.

Then she named a restaurant.

My mind went blank for two seconds.

I knew it. Very well. Once, during a late-night rerun at the shop, a food program had featured it. Steak, set courses, a dessert trolley, city views from the windows. The sort of place where even the presenter cutting a piece of meat got an exaggerated sound effect.

My hand dropped.

“…Have you lost your mind?”

Ines blinked.

“No?”

“This place is expensive!”

“Yes, it is.”

At least she was honest.

I nearly choked.

“Then why did you bring me here?”

“Because I wanted to.”

There wasn’t a trace of a joke on her face. She pulled her bag strap higher, her voice lowering too.

“Part of the Asahi Hai prize money came through. I’d been thinking about what to do when I got it.”

My throat tightened.

Still looking at me, she continued.

“I set some aside for my family first. I was going to save the rest, little by little. But—”

She paused and smiled.

“I wanted even more to treat you to a really good meal.”

Wind blew from the corner. I stood with even the soles of my feet tingling.

“Treat me…?”

“Mm-hm.”

She nodded.

“You.”

Unfair.

Yesterday I’d thought she would go somewhere brighter and further away, meet so many people. That I was only a name on the night-shift rota. And now, after receiving her prize money, one of the first things she wanted was to bring me somewhere like this.

I opened my mouth. The words stuck for ages before one sentence squeezed out.

“Isn’t that a waste…?”

“How is it a waste?”

She laughed, stepped forward, came very close.

“Can’t I show off a little today?”

That silenced me completely.

Maybe it was because she was the sort of person who finished a race and hurried straight to work: that heat was still in her. The words were ordinary. To me, they felt like being pressed entirely into something soft, until I couldn’t even be bothered to struggle.

I stared down at her jacket zip for a long time.

“…But I can’t afford to take you somewhere like this in return.”

“Huh?” Then her smile gradually softened.

“Who said you had to bring me here?”

She reached out and touched my cuff.

Just lightly, then withdrew.

“Next time, take me somewhere you like.”

Something collapsed inside me.

Doomed.

Truly doomed.

How could a person talk like this?

Inside, I was careful even about walking. The carpet was ridiculously soft, the lights warm, the cutlery perfectly placed. When the waiter gave us menus, I hardly knew where to put my hands. Ines didn’t pretend to be composed. She looked at the prices too, murmured “Whoa” while turning pages, and leaned over to whisper in my ear.

“That dessert costs so much…”

“You chose the restaurant!”

“But even if it’s expensive, it looks really good.”

I nearly laughed.

Only then did I relax a little.

She was still the person who watched the clock carefully before bento discounts began, who kept canned-coffee coupons in a neat stack. She hadn’t suddenly become someone from another world. She’d simply taken a piece of her winnings and set it in front of me with extraordinary care.

That was more powerful than anything.

When the main course came, I stared at my steak and forgot how to hold a knife. Across from me, she was already cutting hers seriously. After the first piece, she saw I hadn’t moved and laughed.

“Why do you look like you’re about to cry?”

“Who’s about to cry?”

“You are.”

She lifted the little piece on her fork and held it toward me.

“Ah—”

I nearly sprang out of my chair.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Letting you try a bite first.”

As though it were obvious.

“Aren’t you always saying you’re scared to order expensive things in case they’re disappointing? So try mine first.”

I looked at that piece of steak. Work ethic, thrift, not letting people feed me, this being an expensive restaurant—all gone. Only one thought remained.

She was feeding me.

She was holding a fork and feeding me.

I shut my eyes and opened my mouth in surrender.

The beef was tender, juice bursting across my tongue. But I barely tasted it. Her gesture had nearly steamed me alive.

Drawing back the fork, she asked with satisfaction:

“Well?”

My ears were hot. I looked down and took a huge drink of water.

“…It’s good.”

Her eyes curved with her smile.

“Good.”

The city spread beyond the window, lights coming on one by one. I remembered crying over the can last night, saying she would meet so many people, that somebody closer would stand beside her.

Now I was sitting here.

Ines Fujin across from me.

The expensive dinner she was treating me to on the table.

Seeing me struggle to cut my steak, she pulled my plate over as deftly as she opened cardboard boxes for me in the shop’s back room.

“Here, let me help.”

Cutlery made a quiet sound against the china.

I stared at her lowered profile. My heart had softened into a complete mess. I practically wanted to hand over my soul right there.

So cruel.

Really, so cruel.

How could she use her Asahi Hai prize money to buy me dinner like this?

Who could possibly go back to being ordinary coworkers after that?

Six

Outside the restaurant, the night wind hit my face.

The warmth, the lights, the clinking glasses stayed behind the closed door. The street was quieter; a distant crossing still showed red. Ines put on her jacket and waited by the entrance, as though that outrageously expensive meal had been an ordinary bite after work.

I followed her down the steps, feeling light underfoot.

Not alcohol. I hadn’t had a drop tonight.

Something worse.

Walking beside her, holding the dessert box she’d handed me, my mind was still back at the table. She’d cut my steak, moved my napkin aside, said “You’ll probably like this,” said “Your choice next time.” None of it sounded weighty. Every sentence pulled me further under.

The station wasn’t far. She walked on my right. The streetlights stretched our shadows together; they touched, then separated.

I stared at them. The longer I looked, the worse I felt.

Too much like a dream.

When dreams become too real, they become frightening. You fear waking the next second to the shop’s back door, the hot-food cabinet, the names separated by a square on the rota.

I gripped the dessert box tighter.

She turned toward me.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She caught me immediately, still sounding amused.

“You’ve had that expression for a while.”

“What expression?”

She studied my face for two seconds and reached a very serious conclusion.

“Like someone’s carried you off.”

I nearly missed a step.

“…Who’s carried off whom?”

“Huh? Wasn’t it me?”

Her eyes shone. She wasn’t holding anything back. Unable to bear the look, I turned toward a vending machine, only for its glass to reflect my own face. My ears were spectacularly red.

Mortifying.

Ines saw it and smiled even more happily.

“You’re blushing again.”

“It’s the wind.”

“Then the wind is awfully good at its job today—”

She drew it out, plainly teasing. I should have answered back. But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. Speaking would let everything I couldn’t hide spill out too.

She gradually fell quiet.

On the tree-lined path before the station, she slowed down. Lamps stood at intervals; fallen leaves crackled beneath our feet. Suddenly she said:

“I was really happy today.”

My fingers curled.

“…Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner too.”

She nodded.

“Being out with you made me even happier.”

I stopped dead.

She stopped too and turned. The night wind lifted the loose hair from her forehead. Her eyes were as bright as ever, without the slightest evasion.

I stood there, forgetting whether to look up or down first.

How could she talk like that?

How could she keep handing over the most lethal words so casually, as if she had no idea what they meant?

“You—”

My throat was dry and tight. The rest took a long time to force out.

“Don’t keep saying things like that.”

“Like what?”

Again.

Always this. She knew perfectly well, but still stood there asking, as though she had to watch me fall apart herself before she was satisfied.

I gripped the dessert box until the paper bag’s edge was nearly soft.

“…Things that make people get the wrong idea.”

The world around us went quiet.

A car passed in the distance, its tires crossing the white lines with a hollow sound that slid away. The vending machine’s light divided the tree shadows into little squares.

Ines didn’t continue the joke.

She stood in front of me and looked for a while.

Then:

“I’m not trying to give you the wrong idea.”

My mind emptied.

The next second, she took one small step closer.

“I like you.”

Her expression was calm. No joke, no throwaway remark, none of that easy voice she used with everyone. She said it straight, like driving a nail into a board. Fixed in place with one strike.

I crashed completely.

No exaggeration. I actually forgot how to blink. Under the streetlight, holding my dessert box, I was a cash register with its plug pulled out.

She looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“Why are you like this?”

I still didn’t move.

She waved a hand in front of my eyes.

“Still there—?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing.

Again. Finally, a little breath escaped.

“…Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not joking.”

Too fast.

Too fast for me even to find a way out.

“But—”

“You were avoiding me yesterday.”

“… ”

“Today, you look like you’re about to break whenever you see me.”

She smiled as she spoke, but there was nothing frivolous in it.

“And the way you look at me is completely different.”

Even my fingertips went numb.

Finished. All of it.

I’d thought I was hiding it well. To her, it had been laid out in plain sight all along.

“At first I wondered whether I was imagining things.”

She looked down at me, softening her voice.

“Then I realized I wasn’t.”

I had no idea what to do.

Before dinner, I could still tell myself she was just good with words, that she treated everyone the same, that tonight was a passing impulse after the Asahi Hai. Now she stood in front of me saying she liked me, that I hadn’t misunderstood, that she’d noticed.

Every sentence I could have used to save myself shattered.

The paper bag slipped lower in my hand, nearly falling. She caught it first and set it on the bench beside us.

Then she turned back.

Closer.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

She looked at me, a little smile at the corners of her eyes, her voice steady.

“I’ll say it first.”

Who could stay on their feet through that?

My throat hurt. I wanted to say something, but what came out was the most hopeless sentence.

“…But I’m poor.”

Her eyes widened.

I knew how stupid it sounded. Yet the more nervous I got, the more this nonsense spilled out.

“I—I just work in a convenience store, my place is tiny, I cry when I drink Strong Zero, your messages make me lose my mind, and I’ve spent this whole evening wondering whether it’s a dream. You’ll win so many more races, go so many places, meet so many people, and I—”

I couldn’t finish.

She put her hand over my mouth.

Her palm was warm, with a little coolness left by the wind.

“Okay, okay.”

She laughed so hard her shoulders moved.

“Why are you telling me that now?”

My ears felt ready to explode. With her hand over my mouth, I could only stay silent.

She didn’t move it immediately. She just looked at me, eyes curving.

“And the Strong Zero part was awfully specific.”

I nearly ceased to exist.

“You… you knew…”

“Guessed.”

At last she lowered her hand, sounding a little pleased with herself.

“Was I right?”

I couldn’t answer.

Watching me, she suddenly quieted. Wind passed between us and stirred the ends of her hair. She brushed aside my untidy fringe, a small movement that stopped just after her fingertips touched it.

“Listen.”

She said it clearly.

“I don’t like you because of how you run, whether you win, where you live, or how much you earn.”

“I like the person you are.”

“You.”

With every word, another layer disappeared from my mind. In the end nothing remained except her, close enough for me to see the shadows of her eyelashes.

Looking at her, I finally whispered:

“…Then don’t regret it.”

She smiled.

“I won’t.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I tried to say something else. As my lips moved, she leaned down.

The kiss was impossibly light.

No beautiful movie angle, no dramatic warning. She leaned a little closer, held my wrist, and touched her lips to mine. Half a second, one more light brush.

The streetlights shone. The wind kept blowing. Distant traffic went on.

I couldn’t hear any of it.

I stood there, forgetting even to close my eyes, as though that one kiss had erased me. When she drew back, she looked at me for two seconds and couldn’t hold in her laughter.

“You really can’t move at all.”

As if someone had pressed a switch, I came back all at once. My whole face burned. The warmth of her lips remained, making even my neck tingle.

“You—”

I covered my mouth. My voice sounded different.

“Why did you suddenly…!”

“Because I wanted to kiss you.”

As though it were obvious.

Then she added:

“And you were so cute just then.”

This time I really couldn’t speak.

Seeing me close to breaking down entirely, she took the bag from the bench and put it back into my hand. Then, naturally, she took my other hand.

My fingertips trembled as her palm met mine. She held firmly, as though I might run away the next second.

“Let’s go.”

She swung our joined hands.

“If we don’t get to the platform, we’ll really miss the train.”

I looked down at our hands. After two seconds, I finally recovered a little of my voice.

“…Ines-chan.”

“Hmm?”

“I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

She glanced at me.

Then squeezed my fingers.

“Then don’t wake up yet.”

Epilogue

I was still dazed when the train arrived.

As the doors opened, Ines led me aboard and found a place beside them. The evening carriage wasn’t crowded. Our reflections stood close together in the glass. I looked down. We were still holding hands.

Not a passing touch on an impulse.

She hadn’t let go.

I hadn’t dared to.

The train swayed. I nearly hit a handrail, and Ines pulled me a little closer without thinking.

“Careful.”

It sounded so natural.

As though she’d done this many times before.

My ears heated again. I could only stare at the safety line on the floor. After a long while, I couldn’t help asking quietly:

“Um…”

“Hmm?”

“What does what happened just now make us?”

Ines blinked. Then she understood, and laughed outright.

“Whaaat—you still have to ask?”

“Yes!”

My face was nearly burning away.

“If we don’t make it clear, I won’t sleep tonight!”

Her shoulders shook with laughter. When she stopped, she gripped my hand a little tighter.

“Then I’ll say it properly.”

She straightened and turned to face me. The carriage lights fell on her face, making her eyes shine. Even her smile had that unmistakably Ines drive to charge straight ahead.

“I like you.”

“I want to go out with you.”

“Will you?”

Even this was like starting a race for her.

No lead-in, no detours. The moment the words left her mouth, she ran for the finish.

I stared, my mind empty. After thinking for ages, only the truest sentence remained.

“…I’ve been a lost cause for ages.”

“Hmm?” she said, as though she hadn’t understood.

I turned my face away and spoke very quietly.

“Yes.”

Then I shut my eyes.

Mortifying.

But a second later, the warmth of her fingertips brushed the back of my hand. Light, happy, as though any more pressure might make me run.

“I’m so glad.”

That was what she said.

Suddenly I wanted to laugh.

Last night I’d been hugging Strong Zero in my studio, crying because I was only one of the many people she would meet, a name she’d soon leave behind. Tonight I stood on the train home, hearing her ask me to be her girlfriend.

Life sometimes makes absolutely no sense.

---

We parted outside the station later.

Our homes were in different directions. Before leaving, she seriously asked whether I wanted her to walk me to my building. Alarmed, I shook my head. No, really, no. I was already abnormal enough; if she walked me home, I’d crash until tomorrow.

She laughed again.

“You’ve crashed a lot today.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Isn’t it nice that it’s mine?”

Not remotely modest.

I glared at her. She smiled back under the streetlight. Then she leaned forward suddenly and brushed the corner of my mouth.

Just once.

And immediately stepped away.

“Goodnight, girlfriend.”

Then she ran.

I stood holding the dessert box, out of power again. By the time I recovered, she was at the corner, turning to wave twice.

“Message me when you’re home—!”

I couldn’t even answer. I stood covering my mouth like an idiot who’d only just learned how to switch on.

---

After that, plenty of things didn’t suddenly become extraordinary.

We still worked. Still watched for discounted bentos. Still did our sums together before payday. Ines still trained and raced, still divided her prize money into portions to send home. I still lived in my little room. Sometimes I still bought Strong Zero. I just never cried over it again.

Because someone would answer my messages.

Very quickly, too.

“Practice is over ♡”

“Is the shop busy today?”

“Miss you—”

Dating hadn’t changed her. Still that direct, as though deliberately running straight into me. The difference was that before, I’d read her messages while cursing her for being unfair. Now I’d learned to hug my phone, roll across the bed twice, and reply:

“I know. Go shower.”

Then she’d immediately send a kiss, a heart, or something worse, like “You sound like my wife right now.”

The first time, I nearly dropped my phone.

The second, I could already tell her to stop it while my ears went red.

The third, she came right up beside me in the night-shift break room and whispered:

“But I really do like it.”

What could anyone do about that?

---

The others at the shop found out later.

We didn’t announce it. It was simply too obvious.

Ines used to cover my shifts casually; now she looked at me before offering. I used to straighten her crooked name badge; now she lowered her head for me when she came over. After watching us for two weeks, the manager finally remarked one late night while cashing up:

“Something’s changed between you two.”

My hand shook. I nearly knocked the scanner onto the floor.

Ines was perfectly open about it.

“Yep. It has.”

“Hey!”

I turned to glare. She smiled, looking as though she couldn’t see anything wrong with that. Behind the counter, the manager nodded while lighting a cigarette.

“Good.”

“I thought so. The whole shop feels different when your names are next to each other on the night-shift rota.”

I went quiet.

The night-shift rota.

The paper I’d once stared at through tears was still beside the staff-room door. The only difference was that seeing Ines Fujin’s name no longer made me think only of whether she might stop coming back.

I thought of walking to the station after work, the fruit sweets she fished from her bag for me, her wink after straightening her name badge, the message “Let’s have a good shift today too, my girlfriend ♪”

Thinking of that made me smile.

Stupidly.

But that was fine.

Because whenever she saw me smile, she smiled too.

---

At the end of the month, the new rota went up.

I stood at the staff-room door, looking for my own name out of habit. Just as I found it, a finger appeared beside me, pointing at another row.

Ines.

She stood behind me, fresh from training, hair still slightly damp, bag on her shoulder, bringing all the wind from outside with her.

“Look.”

Her voice was soft and smiling.

“We’re together next Wednesday again.”

I followed her finger.

Our names were side by side, followed by the same hours.

Night shift.

I stared at the two lines for a while and suddenly remembered that early morning long ago. The little staff room, the leaking air conditioner, the crushed Strong Zero, the tears that wouldn’t stop as I stared at the rota.

Back then, I’d thought that as long as she kept coming back, I would be helpless.

Now she’d really come back.

And not just for a moment.

She came back to hold my hand, to eat the cheap set meal I bought her, to stand by the shelves and call my name in that unfair voice, to put her name openly beside mine.

I turned toward her.

She was looking at me too.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Then I reached out and straightened the slightly crooked badge on her chest.

“I just think—”

She blinked.

“Hmm?”

Looking at her, I finally said what I’d wanted to say all along.

“I’m so glad you came back.”

Ines paused.

Then smiled.

“I’ll always come back.”

She bent and touched a quick kiss to my forehead, like a surprise attack.

“Because you’re here.”

The plastic curtain swayed at the back door. The hot-food cabinet still glowed. From the till, the manager called us back to work.

Everything was still the same convenience store.

But I knew it was different.