their laughter tumbled through the air like wind chimes in a summer breeze, light and melodious, carrying with it the warmth of familiarity—a warmth that felt almost defiant against the lingering bite of winter still clinging to the windows; spring hadn’t even begun yet, after all.
sakiko sat at the center of it all, a hesitant smile tugging at her lips as the others crowded around her, their elbows brushing hers, their voices overlapping like threads weaving her into the tapestry of the moment. their presence pressed against her own, solid and real, anchoring her in ways she’d forgotten could exist after isolating herself for so long.
they’d crammed into the café part of circle (because why would they be practising on saki’s birthday?), its amber lights pooling honey-gold across scuffed tabletops and chairs worn smooth by time. a modest cake sat before her, its frosting slightly lopsided, candles trembling like shy stars under the air conditioning’s buzz. their light wavered in the wide-eyed glances of her friends—mutsumi’s quiet intensity, anon’s restless energy, tomori’s tentative joy—all haloed in the fragile glow.
“make a wish, saki,” mutsumi murmured, leaning closer. her voice, usually feather-soft, carried a warmth that melted into the candlelit haze. gold eyes held hers, unflinching, and sakiko’s throat tightened.
she hesitated. wishes were for children, for dreamers; for people who hadn’t learned how easily hope could fray.
anon jabbed her ribs, grinning. “come on, come on! if you don’t, i’ll wish for unlimited karage!”
“you can’t just steal someone’s wish, ano-chan,” tomori huffed, though her lips twitched upward, her fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against her knees.
soyo’s hum harmonized with the tap of her nails against the table—deliberate, steady—while taki watched, phone forgotten, her gaze much sharper than sakiko remembered.
the moment fluttered, delicate as a moth’s wing. precious, how they pressed into her space, their breaths mingling, their laughter etching itself into her bones. (well, minus anon, but her chaos was a familiar sort of comfort.)
she closed her eyes.
the wish came anyway—soft, unbidden—a whisper she hadn’t known lived inside her.
when the candles died out into a curl of smoke, the room erupted. anon’s cheers toppled a glass, its clatter drowned by tomori’s giggles, mutsumi’s sigh; taki’s rare chuckle. conversations spiraled, weaving around sakiko, pulling her into stories she’d once thought belonged to ghosts. but here, now, the ghosts felt alive. here, now, she let herself believe she belonged.
she let herself breathe, even if it was just for one day.
uika sat at the kitchen table, a single candle shuddering in the dark.
the cupcake—store-bought, vanilla, the kind saki always pretended to hate—sat untouched, its frosting gleaming like wet paint under the frail light. the flame bent, trembling, as if straining to hear the echoes of a voice that no longer filled the room.
saki’s chair sat unchanged, its cushions still dented from the shape of her. almost two months, and uika couldn’t bring herself to smooth it out.
two months.
the apartment hummed with absence. the fridge lacked its usual clutter of shitty coffee; the walls, stripped of any sign that saki ever lived there, stared back blankly. uika had watched the videos—sakiko’s old band, her tears, bright amidst a circle of faces uika didn’t recognize (except hers , it had always been hers). she’d memorized the way saki’s eyes crinkled now, the ease in her shoulders, the belonging she’d found without uika’s hands to hold her up.
she was happy.
and uika was happy for her.
(if she repeated it enough, maybe the words would calcify into truth.)
the candle hissed, a tear of wax sliding down its side. uika folded her arms against the table, her cheek pressed to the wood grain, and watched the flame shrink. shadows pooled in the hollows of the room—in the space where saki liked to keep things she didn’t particularly need, in the silence where her teases once punctured the quiet.
“saki-chan,” she whispered, the name crumbling like ash.
nothing answered but the clock’s tick, the muffled growl of traffic below; the faint creak of the chair as the candle gasped its last breath.
she didn’t move.
the smoke lingered, bitter and sweet, long after the light died.
happy birthday, a prayer that would remain on the tip of her tongue.