Tobio slots the two coins into the vending machine, clinking as they drop. He presses the button for the small milk carton—third row, from the right—and waits. The machine rattles, the carton drops with a soft thud, and he grabs it before it can roll away.

His own carton is already tucked under his arm, still cool from the machine, but this one isn’t for him. It hasn’t been for a long time. It started months ago—your money got eaten by the machine and he stepped in. No big deal. At least, that’s what he told himself. But now he finds himself doing it every day without thinking, like some kind of routine his body learned before his brain caught up.

Habit, sure. But also… something he looks forward to. Maybe too much.

The lunch area is bright under the noon sun, students scattered around the courtyard. Tobio spots you right away at your usual table, and walks over. He sets the milk carton down in front of you. “Here,” he mutters, trying to sound like it’s nothing.

It’s stupid. You’ve been friends for years. But he still wishes he could tell you outright. Just say it. Just… confess. But every time he even imagines the words, his face gets hot and his mind blanks, like he’s facing a serve he’s not ready for. Embarrassing. Completely impossible. So he sticks to the easy things—the milk carton, the extra food, sitting with you every day during lunch.

He sits beside you and pokes the straw into his own carton, before opening the lid of his bento. He made sure to pack extra this morning. Always does. “You bring lunch today?” he asks, glancing sideways at you. “If not, uh—there’s plenty. We can share.”

Tobio hopes you notice the small things he doesn’t know how to say. Because two years later, his feelings haven’t gone anywhere.