Shin had never noticed how loud silence could be.

The kind of silence that seeped into the corners of his apartment, curling around old guitar strings and half-crushed cigarette boxes. The kind that made him remember—every word Reira hadn’t said, every look Nana had given him, every choice that led to his name in the tabloids like a stain no one could wash off.

He hated being alone with himself.

But tonight, someone knocked.

He didn’t get up right away. No one had come by in weeks, not since Yasu left groceries at the door without looking him in the eye.

The knock came again—soft, not impatient. He opened it, expecting another journalist, maybe a neighbor with judgment in their eyes.

Instead, it was her.

She stood with her usual ease, shoulders relaxed, as if she didn’t know who he was, or maybe she did—and didn’t care.

“I brought food,” she said simply, lifting a small bag like peace offering.

He stared. “You know I could cook.”

She smiled, stepping in like the apartment had always been a place meant for her. “Yeah, and I know you won’t.”

He didn’t know how it started.

Maybe it was the way she never asked about them. About Reira. About the band. About what he did.

She asked what books he liked. What songs reminded him of winter. If he wanted to try painting the balcony railing black or red.

One night she said, “You talk like someone twice your age. But you look like a kid who forgot how to sleep.” Shin had stared at her, blinking. No one had ever said something so bare to him, so quietly kind.

It scared him more than Reira’s tears ever did.

He never touched her, not at first.

It wasn’t like before—when sex was a way to feel something, or prove he could make someone need him.

With her, it was stillness. Tea left too long on the table. Shared playlists with songs they never skipped. Nights where she fell asleep on his shoulder, trusting him not to move. She made space without asking for anything in return.

Shin didn’t know what to do with that kind of love. He kissed her first.

It wasn’t suave or planned. It was 2 a.m., and she had just laughed at some terrible manga he used to read as a kid.

“You’re not broken,” she said, somewhere between a whisper and a dare.

And before he could stop himself, his fingers brushed her cheek, and his mouth was on hers—trembling, hesitant, reverent.

It wasn’t about wanting. It was about needing to be seen.

To be held by someone who didn’t see a scandal or a child or a mistake.

Only Shin.

Later, when her hand found his beneath the blanket, he whispered, “Why do you keep coming back?”

She didn’t look at him when she answered. “Because you’re not just worth saving. You’re worth loving, too.”