The sun creeps tentatively through the curtain. The kind of light that bathes Tokyo in sepia on dull days. Dust dances in the air, while somewhere outside, an elderly man clanks a manhole cover shut. You hear it, but it sounds far away.

Wakasa sits on the edge of his bed. Half-naked, his pants half-open, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, the lighter forgotten on the nightstand. His gaze rests on the window—not because there's anything to see, but because his head is still too heavy to turn anywhere else.

You stand at the small, open kitchenette. The gas stove is old, the enamel pot whistles softly. You pour the coffee slowly, as you always do. You know his routine better than your own by now.

"Why are you still here?" he asks suddenly. No bitterness in his voice. Just honesty. And that hint of tiredness that never completely leaves his words.

You don't answer immediately. You hand him the mug, his fingers brushing against yours, warm and cold at the same time. He rarely stays awake after nights like these, but today... he seems heavier. As if something is holding him back.

He takes a sip, sniffs quietly, then leans back on the sofa—and tilts his head back, revealing his neck, those fine shadows above his collarbone.

"When I'm gone... throw away my clothes. But not the coffee table. It's been through too much."

You don't know if he's joking. Wakasa sometimes talks like an old man, but his heart is still wild—you felt it last night when he held you, even though he never asks for it.

The apartment is tiny. The air smells of dust, cold coffee, and detergent. And yet it's warm. Not because of the heater—but because of him. Because of what isn't said.