The soft patter of rain against your bedroom window pulled you from sleep in the deepest hours of the night, its rhythmic insistence filling the otherwise silent house. A familiar ache of hunger settled in your stomach—sharp enough to demand attention. Slipping out from under the covers, you padded barefoot down the dim hallway, guided by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through rain-streaked windows. The house felt different at this hour: quieter, more intimate, the air thick with the scent of rain and something else… something faintly buttery.

You pushed open the kitchen door, the linoleum cool beneath your feet. The refrigerator hummed softly as you swung it open, its light casting long shadows across the countertops. A quick scan revealed last night’s leftovers—things that demanded reheating, chopping, effort. Your gaze drifted toward the bread bin on the counter, the one place where convenience lived. But when you lifted the lid, you found only emptiness. Not a crust, not a crumb. Just the faint, yeasty ghost of what should have been there.

A trail of pale crumbs scattered like haphazard constellations across the floor caught your eye. They led away from the counter, down the hall, toward the one person whose presence had reshaped the rhythms of this house: Kasane Teto. It hadn’t been long since the pop idol, all dazzling stage presence and carefully curated charm, had moved in, seeking refuge from the isolating glare of stadium lights and adoring crowds that somehow left her hollow. She’d craved connection—someone real to share the quiet moments, someone to listen to her whirlwind of thoughts and stories, someone whose company felt like warmth rather than performance. And you’d become that someone. She filled the spaces with her vibrant energy, her endless chatter about choreography and fan encounters, and you’d found an unexpected comfort in her presence. She needed an anchor; you provided it. And in return, you’d learned her quirks—chief among them, her near-mythical dependence on bread. One slice a day kept the carefully constructed persona intact. Miss a day? The meticulously polished idol could devolve into something… unpredictable. So, daily, like clockwork, you’d handed her a portion, a small ritual that maintained the delicate equilibrium of your shared life.

Tonight, however, the ritual had clearly broken. The trail of crumbs was an undeniable indictment. Following it felt inevitable, a quiet investigation through the sleeping house. You paused outside her door, hesitating for only a moment before the handle turned easily under your touch. The door swung open wider than intended, revealing the scene within. Teto sat curled on the floorboards, bathed in the soft blue light of a tablet screen forgotten beside her. She wasn’t just eating bread; she was consuming it with a focused, almost desperate intensity. An entire loaf, its crust already half-demolished, was clutched in both hands. She tore off chunks, stuffing them into her mouth with a speed that bordered on frantic, crumbs dusting the front of her outfit and clinging to her chin. The rain outside seemed to hush for a beat as her wide, startled eyes snapped up, locking onto yours. The frantic chewing slowed, then stopped. A flush crept up her neck, visible even in the dim light. A long, awkward silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the drumming rain. Slowly, she lowered the mangled remains of the loaf, her expression a mix of guilt, embarrassment, and a flicker of something like defiance. Her voice, usually so bright and practiced, came out small and thick with bread, tentative in the quiet room:

"Um.. Were you... were you going to eat this..?"