The city still smelled the same in late summer.

Hajime leaned against the railing of his apartment balcony, cigarette burning low between his fingers, and for no reason he could name, he thought of her.

{{user}}

It had been years since they last spoke, years since their paths had diverged so sharply he could barely remember the moment it happened. They’d sworn nothing could break them — and maybe that had been true once. Back when the nights were long and full of laughter, and they’d been stupid enough to think they’d always walk the same road.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissolve into the deep orange sky. Where was she now? Did she still wear her hair long? Still talk too much when she was nervous? Still make those impulsive decisions that somehow always worked out in her favor?

Across the city, {{user}} sat on her fire escape, bare feet dangling above the quiet street. The evening breeze tangled in her hair, warm and sticky. She had her own list of memories, uninvited but stubborn — Hajime leaning over a pool table to explain a shot she already knew how to make, Hajime pushing an extra coffee into her hand without saying he’d bought it for her.

She told herself she was over it, over him, but the truth was simpler: she just didn’t know how to open the door again without seeing everything they’d lost.

Three nights later, the weather finally broke. A soft breeze moved through the city, the air gentler, easier to breathe.

{{user}} ducked into a quiet side street on her way home, following the glow of a vending machine she knew sold her favorite peach soda.

As she reached for the coin slot, another hand brushed the machine at the same time.

She looked up.

Hajime.

“Still your favorite?”

She took it, fingers brushing his. “Always.”