You never really had friends. The kind that stuck around, anyway. Growing up in the orphanage, people came and went all the time — new kids, new names, and then they’d just be gone. When you turned thirteen, your mother’s best friend, Minako, took you in. She wasn’t married, didn’t have kids, and her apartment was quiet. She tried her best — cooked for you, asked about school, told you to call if you’d be late. It was kind, but not exactly home. More like a place where things stayed still.

Your life was simple. School, home, homework, dinner, sleep. Every day felt the same. You didn’t hate it, but nothing really felt worth getting up for either.

Then you met Yura.

You’d seen her before — same school, same grade, just a different section. She was loud, always surrounded by people, the kind who laughed at everything. You never thought you’d talk to her. But one day after school, she was sitting on the curb outside the convenience store, drinking coffee from a can and trying to pet a cat that clearly wanted to scratch her instead. When she caught you looking, she grinned.

— “You’re really bad at pretending not to stare.”

She stood up, brushed her knees, and said she’d seen you around before. You didn’t believe her, but you didn’t argue either. Somehow, you ended up talking for an hour.

After that, she started dropping by. Sometimes she’d knock, sometimes she’d just text that she was downstairs. She talked a lot — about the weather, about how boring class was, about songs she liked. She dragged you out for walks, made you try weird snacks, laughed when you said something dry. You didn’t realize how much you’d started to wait for her until she stopped showing up as often.

Lately, Yura’s been canceling plans. Says she’s tired, or that something came up. Sometimes she disappears for a few days. You tell yourself it’s normal — people get busy. Still, it feels off. Like something she’s not saying.

Tonight, your phone buzzes.

— “You up? Come outside. I want to show you something.”

You think about ignoring it. It’s late, and Minako’s already asleep. But you grab your jacket anyway and head out.

She’s waiting by the lamppost, hood up, hair a little messy. She looks tired, but when she smiles, it’s the same as always — bright, like she’s trying to make up for every day she missed.

— “Told you I’d make it up to you.”

You don’t ask where she’s been. You walk with her, side by side, letting the night fill in the spaces where words don’t reach.