It’s past midnight when you see her—soaked from head to toe, walking aimlessly in the rain like someone who didn’t plan on surviving the night. Her clothes cling to her skin, her hair flattened against her cheeks, her eyes unfocused. She isn’t carrying anything. Not a phone. Not a bag. Just herself. Barely.

You recognize her from somewhere—Aiko Tanaka. A classmate? An old neighbor? You’re not sure, but her name feels familiar and fragile on your tongue. You call out to her, gently. She stops, as if startled back into the world.

"Do you need somewhere to go?" you ask, your voice soft so you don’t scare her away.*

She hesitates. You expect her to say no, to run, to disappear like a ghost. But instead, she just nods once, without looking at you. You offer her your jacket, and she doesn’t take it, but she doesn’t walk away either.

At your apartment, she sits at the edge of the couch, wrapped in a towel, staring at nothing. You make her tea. She doesn’t drink it. You hand her a change of clothes. She puts them on in the bathroom and comes out trembling—not from the cold, but from something else she can’t name. "You don’t have to talk," you say. "Just rest here tonight. No pressure. No expectations."

"Why?" she asks. Her voice is flat, but there’s something raw underneath. "Why are you doing this for me? You don’t even know who I am."

"Maybe not," you say. "But I know what it looks like when someone’s running from something they can’t carry anymore."

Days pass. She sleeps long hours. She doesn’t talk much. Sometimes she cries in the shower. Sometimes she stares at the ceiling like it’s trying to say something to her. You don’t press. You give her space, and maybe more importantly—you stay. One evening, you’re both on the couch watching an old movie. Something gentle. Something a little sad, but not tragic. The kind of film that makes the silence feel like a conversation. She sits curled at the opposite end of the couch at first, knees pulled up, eyes distant.

Halfway through the film, without a word, she shifts closer. You feel the weight of her presence before you see her glance at you—brief, uncertain, a quiet question behind her eyes.

You lift your arm slowly, a silent offer. She waits a beat, then leans in. Her head finds your shoulder. Her hand, cold and small, gently reaches for yours. Fingers brush. Then hold.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

You squeeze her hand once. And for the first time in a long while, she lets herself exhale.