The toast had gone cold.
Elliot sat at the kitchen table, one sock on, one off, scrolling through his phone while the buttered slice flopped limply in his other hand. It was barely past seven, and the apartment was unusually quiet — except for the gentle hum of the fridge and the occasional chirp of traffic outside.
His mum walked in a minute later, yawning into the collar of an oversized hoodie. Her hair was still damp from the shower, but the coffee mug in her hand suggested she was already halfway through her first task of the day: pretending to be awake.
She stopped when she saw him at the table.
"You're up early."
Elliot shrugged, not looking up. "Didn't sleep much."
She poured coffee, leaned against the counter, and studied him — toast in mouth, scrolling with that semi-vacant look he always had in the mornings. But this time, there was something different about him. His posture. The faint shadows under his eyes. The way his fingers kept pausing mid-scroll.
"So," she said, stirring her coffee lazily, "my son's famous now?"
He blinked. "What?"
She held up her phone, a faint smirk on her lips.
"One of the girls at the school I work at showed me this video. Said you're trending. Manager Elliot Graves — Hero of the Stage."
It was the clip — the one from Ami's showcase. He recognized the shaky camera, the bright lights, the flare of Ami's voice. And there he was, ducking into the frame, handing her a mic, disappearing again.
He groaned. "Oh god. That's the worst one."
"You fixed the audio under pressure," she said, sitting across from him. "They called you 'the cool one in the background.' I didn't even know you liked stages."
"I don't."
"Could've fooled me."
She took a sip of her coffee, eyes softening.
"You've been busy, El."
He nodded, more to his toast than to her. "It's just helping. I'm not, like… in it."
"Helping or building something?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned over, rested a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Whatever it is, I'm proud of you. Even if I don't understand half of it."
And somehow, that landed harder than any applause ever could.
⸻
The walk to school was colder than the apartment.
He spotted Mizuki near the park gate — earbuds in, her bag slung over one shoulder. She didn't wave. Didn't call out his name like she used to. Just started walking when he fell into step beside her.
He waited for the usual barrage — complaints about math class, gossip about Daichi, some dramatic retelling of how she almost missed her alarm.
But there was nothing.
Just footsteps.
Just her hands shoved deep in her coat pockets and her hair half-tied, strands blowing in the breeze.
"You've been quiet lately," he said after a block or two.
She didn't look at him. "Just tired."
"At me?"
"In general."
Another pause.
"You sure?"
She stopped at the crosswalk, eyes fixed on the flashing red figure.
"You've been busy. I get it."
"That doesn't mean I meant to—"
"You don't have to explain."
The walk sign lit up.
They crossed.
⸻
Just before they reached the school gate, she finally slowed.
The crowd hadn't shown up yet — just a few early club students and someone sweeping the steps. It was quiet enough to hear her voice when she spoke, barely above a whisper.
"It's like you're still here, but not… with us. Like your shadow's still walking beside me, but your mind's already on the next stage light."
He stopped walking.
"I didn't mean to drift."
"I know."
She turned to face him, properly this time.
"That's what makes it harder."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
"You used to hate the noise, remember?"
"I still do."
"Then why do you keep chasing it?"
She wasn't angry. She wasn't crying.
She just looked… tired.
The bell rang in the distance.
She adjusted her bag strap and stepped away.
"See you in class."
He stood there for a moment too long.
⸻
That night, Elliot sat on his bed, textbooks unopened beside him, staring at a blank message thread on his phone.
He started typing.
Want to hang out soon?
Paused.
Deleted it.
A new message came through.
Ami:
Rehearsal tomorrow. You in?
He stared at that for a while, too.
Eventually, he just replied:
Yeah.
Elliot stared at the ceiling.
The hum of the city outside had softened to a low, familiar rhythm — cars passing, the occasional siren far off, the steady tick of his wall clock.
His phone screen was still lit in his hand.
Ami's message sat at the top:
Rehearsal tomorrow. You in?
Yeah.
That was already done.
That version of him — the one who had made the choice to go — had already spoken.
But the version of him sitting there now?
Staring into the dark with something caught behind his ribs?
He was still stuck on a silence from earlier.
⸻
He opened Mizuki's name again.
No unread texts. No half-hearted group chat replies. Just the empty line.
He tapped the keyboard.
Slowly.
Want to hang out soon?
He hovered over send.
Again.
Paused.
Again.
But this time, he didn't delete it.
He let himself remember the way she'd stood there that morning — hands in her pockets, voice so calm it felt like a bruise that hadn't bloomed yet.
He thought about the lunches they used to share on the rooftop. The times she annoyed him on purpose just to get him to look up from whatever spiral he was stuck in. The way she used to laugh with her whole body — and lately hadn't even been using half.
He hit send.
⸻
No dramatic sound cue. No "message read" bubble.
Just… silence.
But a different kind of silence.
One with room in it.
He set his phone down on the nightstand. Rolled over. Let the glow of the screen fade into the dark.
And for once —
He didn't feel like he was running.