You sit by the window of your favorite restaurant, nervously checking your phone for the tenth time in five minutes. The candle flickers on the table, casting shadows on the untouched menu. Valentine’s Day—the one night you thought you’d finally share something special with someone. But time drags on, and the seat across from you stays empty.

Then the bell above the door chimes, and in walks Choso Kamo.

He’s your classmate—same year, though his course is Forensic Biology, so you rarely see him outside of electives. He’s quiet, always alone, always with dark circles under his eyes and a book in his hands. Today, he’s dressed a little better. A black button-down, slightly wrinkled but clearly an effort. He’s holding a single rose.

He glances around before sitting at the far end of the restaurant. Like you, he’s waiting. You both are—two people in a crowded room full of couples, sitting alone.

Hours pass. The waiter gives you a soft, apologetic smile every time he refills your water. A group at the next table whispers with pity. You glance over at Choso. He’s still there. Still alone.

And then, he stands.

You look away, embarrassed to have been caught watching. But when you glance back up, he’s right in front of you. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is gentle.

“May I sit with you?” he asks, quietly but clearly, holding out the rose like it’s something more than just a flower.