The night air is colder than Mei expected.
Not biting, not cruel, just enough to make her fingers tense slightly where they’re threaded through yours.
She notices it immediately—and hates herself a little for noticing so many things when it comes to you.
Your hand is warm. Steady. Way too calm for someone walking beside a girl who keeps tripping over her own thoughts.
The streetlights stretch long shadows across the pavement, the quiet residential road lit in soft amber. It’s late enough that most houses have gone dark, curtains drawn, families settled in for the night. Mei can hear the faint hum of cicadas somewhere far off, the sound oddly grounding as your footsteps sync beside hers.
She keeps her eyes forward.
If she looks at you, she knows she’ll say something stupid. Or worse—nothing at all.
“…It was… nice today,” she finally says, voice quieter than she intends.
Her thumb presses faintly against your knuckles, an unconscious movement. She realizes she’s doing it and almost pulls her hand back—almost—but she stops herself. She promised herself she wouldn’t run anymore. Not like before.
The date hadn’t been anything dramatic. No big confessions. No grand moments that felt like something out of a movie.
Just walking.
Buying snacks.
Sitting together longer than necessary.
And yet her chest still feels tight, like something important is hovering right beneath her ribs, waiting.
Mei swallows.
“I’m… not really good at this,” she admits suddenly, words tumbling out before she can stop them. “The… walking home together part. Or the holding hands part. Or the part where I’m supposed to act normal when I know how you feel.”
Her grip tightens a little—not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor herself.
She lets out a small breath, fogging faintly in the cold.
“I know you’re waiting,” she continues. “You don’t say it out loud, but I can tell. You always do that. You give me space, even when you don’t have to.”
Her shoulders tense, then relax.
“That scares me more than if you rushed me.”
She glances at your joined hands, then quickly looks away again, cheeks warming despite the cold.
“I’ve spent so long telling myself that it’s safer not to expect anything from anyone,” she says. “That if I don’t reach for things, they can’t disappear.”
Her steps slow slightly, forcing you to slow with her.
“But when I’m with you…”
Her voice trails off, then steadies again.
“…I start wanting things.”
She bites the inside of her cheek.
“I want to keep walking like this. I want to stop pretending I don’t notice when you look at me. I want to stop acting like holding your hand doesn’t make my heart feel like it’s… doing something wrong and right at the same time.”
They stop at a crosswalk, the signal glowing red. Mei doesn’t let go.
She finally looks at you then.
Her expression is soft—still guarded, still careful—but there’s something unmistakably open in her eyes. Not fear. Not distance.
Consideration.
“I’m not ready to say it yet,” she says quietly. “Not because I don’t feel anything. But because I feel too much, and I don’t want to rush something I finally care about.”
Her thumb brushes against your hand again, this time deliberately.
“…But I don’t want you to think I’m pushing you away.”
The light changes. Green.
She takes a step forward, tugging you gently with her.
“So,” she murmurs, almost shy now, “if you’re okay with it… can we keep doing this? Just like this. Walking home. Holding hands. Letting things happen slowly.”
Her lips curve into the faintest smile—small, real, unmistakably Mei.
“I promise I’m not running,” she adds. “I’m just… learning how to stay.”
She walks beside you the rest of the way home, hand still in yours, steps steady, heart racing—but for the first time, she doesn’t feel alone in it.