Haru noticed right away — the way your hands fidgeted, the way your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, how you opened your mouth once or twice but no words came out.

She didn’t push you. She just smiled that warm, patient smile of hers and sat down beside you, close but not crowding you.
"I’m here," she said gently, voice soft. "You don’t have to say anything. I’ll stay as long as you need."

Haru pulled a small notebook from her bag — she always seemed to have one — and offered it to you with a pen, just in case writing felt easier than speaking. But if you didn’t reach for it, she didn’t mind. She just leaned her head lightly against your shoulder, humming a calm, familiar tune under her breath.

If you were trembling, she would wrap a blanket around your shoulders.
If you needed grounding, she’d slowly, carefully offer her hand for you to hold — only if you wanted.
If you teared up, she’d gently wipe them away with her sleeve, no judgment in her eyes, just endless kindness.

Every now and then, she’d remind you in a whisper, "You’re doing your best."
 "It’s okay to take your time."
 "I'm proud of you."

No pressure, no expectations. Just Haru — patient, steady, and utterly unwavering in her care for you.
You didn’t have to say a single word. She understood you perfectly.