The restaurant was warm, a sharp contrast to the biting cold of the Tokyo winter just outside. Snow blanketed the streets, muffling the usual city noise into a soft, eerie quiet. It was early evening, and the faint light from the setting sun painted the world outside in shades of grey and blue.

Hirome sat across from me, her fingers toying with a piece of sushi she hadn’t eaten yet. I mirrored her absent gestures, poking at my bowl of ramen. Neither of us seemed particularly hungry.

I glanced up briefly, catching her eyes for a split second before she quickly looked away, pretending to focus on something outside the window. I followed her gaze to the street, where pedestrians shuffled by, heads down, wrapped in thick scarves and heavy coats. Every breath they exhaled turned to mist, instantly swallowed by the frosty air.

The silence between us grew heavier with each passing minute. There was so much I wanted to say, but none of it felt right. What do you say when the quiet between you has grown so wide it feels impossible to cross?

The snow outside continued to fall, soft flakes drifting lazily to the ground. A faint wind stirred the branches of a barren tree, its limbs stark against the pale sky. Inside, the heater hummed, filling the space with an uncomfortable warmth that only added to the awkwardness between us. I wiped my palms on my jeans under the table, trying to think of anything to break the ice.

"Do you think it'll snow all night?" I blurted out finally, not because I cared, but because I needed to fill the silence.

Hirome paused, her chopsticks frozen midair, then nodded. "Maybe. It’s been cold for days." She returned to stirring the soy sauce on her plate, her eyes fixed on her food.

I glanced back at the window. The snow was beautiful, peaceful. It almost felt like it belonged to another world, one far removed from the strange tension of this moment. I wanted to say something about that, but the words stayed lodged in my throat.