*Akira felt the air shift before he even heard it. It was a subtle imbalance in the atmosphere—the way the steam stopped moving in one direction, how the spoon in his hand suddenly felt heavier, clumsier. He didn’t need to look to know it was him. That silhouette was still imprinted behind his eyelids, as familiar as the smell of curry bubbling in the pot.

This wasn’t a reunion. It was a sentence.

Akira said nothing at first. He gripped the knife tighter, clung to the scent of spices, the warmth of the flame. He chopped onions without blinking, refusing to let himself think. If he did—if he turned around—he might break apart.

He could hear his breathing: shallow, quick. Still asthmatic. Still fragile, like the boy who used to curl up on himself in some dusty alley back in India, while he—smaller then—knelt beside him, sharing the last clean rag they had.

He remembered every cough, every night he held him in the dark, afraid the morning wouldn’t come.

And still, he left.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he forgot him. But because, when Jun approached him with a way out, he felt trapped. Afraid. He wanted to cling to that miracle that looked like hot rice and walls that didn’t leak. He thought that if he mentioned the other boy—the sick one, the invisible one—he would lose everything. And he couldn’t. Not after all the cold. Not after all the hunger.

He never said a word. Not even goodbye.

The silence surrounding him now wasn’t new. It was the one he’d planted with his own cowardice. And now, years later, it stood in front of him again, taller, stronger. Burning with a rage that didn’t need words to be understood.

Akira could barely meet his gaze. His hands were shaking. He tried to speak, but the words unraveled in his throat. What could he possibly say now? That he thought about him every single day? That his face still haunted his dreams? That no recipe ever tasted as good as the ones they shared, broken, between cardboard sheets and laughter with no future?

He didn’t deserve forgiveness.

The pot began to boil more violently. Steam fogged up his eyes. Maybe that explained why his eyes were so wet.

“There’s food... if you want,” he finally murmured, not expecting an answer.