The programming class smells like solder and stale coffee.
The lab is half-full after lectures—plastic chairs, long tables wired with cables, monitors dimmed like sleeping animals. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Tonight, the assignment is simple on paper and impossible in reality: build a small app with a working UI and a backend that stores user input. It's the sort of task that separates people who can "think" code from people who can "feel" it. I've learned to prefer feeling.
Professor Nakamura paces the front like a conductor without an orchestra. "You have two weeks. I will grade on functionality, explanation, and practicality. Pair up wisely."
I already know who I want to pair with.
When I submit my name the usual small panic shows. Being paired with anyone puts pressure on me—language, time, expectations. But when Allysa slides into the desk beside me and smiles, the pressure becomes something else: possibility.
"We should use a simple UI," she says, earnest. "Something clean. A habit tracker? Study logs? It could be useful for students."
Her eyes shine with ideas, not ego. I like that. "A study log," I repeat, thinking of late nights in the dorm, the endless cycle of learning and working. "We can add tags. Graphs."
She nods, "And a reminder feature for part-time shifts. Students who work forget things." There's a small, private laugh at the edge of her voice—like she knows more than she's admitting.
We sketch a plan on margin paper. It's nothing elaborate: input fields, a calendar, tag categories. I feel the plan like a map, and for a moment I am not the tired foreign student who apologizes for every wrong verb. I am a contributor.
"Do you want to come to the library later?" she asks when we've finished the outline. "We can start coding the interface. Mina and Emi want to test it with feedback."
My calendar is already full of work shifts and sleep sown between tasks. But I hesitate for the right reasons. "I can come after my shift at the shop," I say. "I close at nine."
"Perfect," she replies. "See you there."
⸻
The computer shop smells like warmed plastic and the faint sweetness of solder flux. It's a small place sandwiched between a noodle shop and a pawn shop, lit by glass cases displaying used laptops with stickers and scuffs that read like a ledger of other lives. My boss doesn't like idle chatter, but he tolerates me because I keep the used systems tidy and customers mostly calm.
Tonight a customer comes in with a laptop that boots but shows a blue screen on login. The woman speaks fast and apologetically, like every minute the laptop is broken is a minute she loses something important—photos, documents, the small gravity of ordinary life.
"Please," she says. "It's my daughter's graduation photos."
I take the laptop, my hands trained by repetition. Finding the right screws, the right cable that has loosened—these are small rituals that steady me. I open the case, press gently on a ribbon connector, and the laptop blinks like a shy animal and wakes.
The woman cries quietly when the thumbnails reappear, the photos like recovered promises. "You fixed it," she whispers.
"We just made it listen," I say, awkward and honest.
When I leave the shop, it's past nine. The night air bites but it's the familiar type of cold that clears the head. I hurry to the library, my backpack bumping against my shoulders. My phone buzzes with a message from Yuto—Good luck, don't mess up the UI, show off a little. I smile and type back a thumbs-up, then step into the library's warm light.
Allysa is already there, seated by the window, the city's glow painting her face in soft colors. Mina and Emi are with her, laptops open, notes spread like an open book. When I slide into the chair, Allysa greets me with a smile that reads like relief.
"Hey, you're late," she teases, but her tone is easy.
"Work," I say. "Same old story."
We get to it. Lines of code become scaffolding. Allysa is good at breaking the UI down—what fields the user needs, how to make the colors not shout. I take on wiring the backend logic. I move through material like a man who has learned to do things with his hands because words are heavy at the end of the day.
Mina watches our progress and asks questions that reveal what users will need. Emi reminds us to keep accessibility in mind. The three of them offer a steady stream of practical suggestions, and we stitch them into the app with small, careful stitches.
At midnight, the library blinks empty and the security staff's lamp sweeps the tables. We've made functioning modules: login, input, and a rudimentary graph. The habit reminder sends a test notification to my phone and I feel small and satisfied when it vibrates.
"You did a lot," Allysa says quietly as we pack up. "Luka, your code is clean."
My chest warms. Praise doesn't come often, not honest praise. "Thank you."
She hesitates, folding her scarf. "You said you work to help your family."
"Yes." I never correct them when they assume family identity. The Takahashis are my family in every real way. I remind myself that not everyone understands what adoption means in my life: a rescue, a responsibility, a binding love.
She studies me a moment. Then she looks away like someone closing an open book. "Do you ever… get enough rest?"
I laugh a little too quickly. "No," I say. "Not really."
"Then promise me something," she murmurs. "Promise you'll come to the library more often. Even if it's just for an hour. You don't have to fix everything alone."
Her voice is soft enough that I could have missed it. But I hear it. The promise is not for the app. It is for me.
⸻
The app becomes a small magnet for our meetings. We code during the day between classes and at nights when the rest of the campus sleeps. Sometimes Allysa's friends slip in with caffeinated drinks and feedback; sometimes Yuto appears, wildly enthusiastic about the project's potential to be featured in the campus tech fair.
There are small moments folded into the work that taste like warmth. Allysa brings snacks once, a small box of dorayaki that she offers me with a smile. She shows me a reference book on UI design she likes. She asks about my home country sometimes, about foods and school life, and I tell stories because storytelling is a gentle way to show someone who you are.
One evening, when a week has passed and the app's interface is almost beautiful in its simplicity, Allysa receives a call. She steps outside and walks into the dim corridor by the library's rear. I can hear the muffled sound of her voice as she speaks softly into the phone. Her shoulders tense; her hand trembles a little when it comes away from her ear.
She returns and sits down without explanation, but she is not the same. The warmth around her seems thinner, as though someone has taken a layer off the world.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, voice too careful.
She keeps her gaze on her laptop screen. "It's my mother. She wants to know why I'm spending time on this project. She thinks I should focus on clubs that help my career, not… side things."
She lets out a breath that sounds like it's been held too long. "She says I'm wasting time. She says I have everything and I should be preparing for the family legacy, not messing around."
Her fingers hover above the keyboard. "I told her it's useful, but she didn't hear me."
It's a small avalanche of words: expectations, legacy, the kind of pressure that presses like humidity. I remember the party, when she slipped away to smoke. I remember how the cigarette seemed to pull something out of her that daylight couldn't hold.
"You don't have to be what they expect all the time," I say, after a moment. It feels like an honest thing to say—maybe because I know a little about being expected to be someone else. "You can do things because you want to."
She looks at me, and for a second, the tidy mask falls. Her eyes are wet at the edges. "It's not that simple," she says, voice small. "If I disappoint them, it's not just me. It's our name. I can't— I can't make foolish choices."
I want to tell her that everyone makes foolish choices and that sometimes those choices save you. I want to tell her about my father, but the words are heavy and private. So I say a smaller thing, the kind of truth that fits into the space between people.
"You can make small rebellions," I tell her. "You can light a cigarette behind a wall or stay an hour at the library. Not everything breaks because you choose something for yourself."
She lets out a short laugh that is half-cry. "You make it sound poetic."
"You make it sound brave," I reply.
She looks down and for a fraction of a beat, she rests her head on her arms like she's a child letting the moment be seen. "I'm scared," she admits. "Of being found out. Of losing… everything."
Her confession is simple, and it lands like a coin dropped into a fountain—small ripples across still water. For the first time since I met her, she offers me the part of herself she tries to hide.
"I won't tell anyone," I say. It's a promise more than a statement. "Not because I'm hiding secrets, but because I know things like that cost.
She nods, and in the silence afterwards a new kind of understanding settles between us—not romantic yet, not even a deep trust, but something more fragile: a shared acknowledgement of each other's small private wars.
⸻
The app becomes our shelter. We test it with classmates, stitch the UI with colors that aren't too loud, and adjust the notifications so they are gentle nudges, not alarms. We add a private mode, a hidden tab that keeps sensitive entries away from prying eyes. Allysa says nothing about that feature, but when she discovers it she smiles like it's a small victory she can keep.
One late night as we push the last commit, Allysa slumps back in her chair. "I can't believe we did this," she breathes.
"You did most of the design," I say.
She shakes her head. "You did the logic. You stayed up all last night fixing a bug. You're the one who kept it from falling apart."
She feeds praise like she's practicing gratitude aloud. It's awkward for me but it's honest and it cracks something in my chest. I look at her and I want to say something like: You don't have to carry everything alone, but the words feel too heavy, and so I say a different truth.
"You don't have to hide it all yourself," I tell her. "Letting someone in doesn't make you weaker."
She stares at me, then nods slowly. "I know."
When we leave the library, the night is near-empty. The air smells like wet asphalt and train diesel. We walk the path toward the station together, the city lights blurred by a low fog. Allysa pulls her scarf tighter but this time it feels like she's protecting herself rather than hiding.
"Thank you," she says suddenly. "For tonight. For listening."
"You're welcome," I answer. It is the smallest, truest thing I can be.
At the train platform she turns her face toward me. "We should present this next week."
"We will," I say, and the certainty is small but firm.
She steps onto the train and the doors close. The carriage moves, carrying her away in a warm light. I stand on the platform for a moment, the cold nipping at my ears, thinking about what it means to be part of someone's life.
Back in my room, the Takahashi photograph watches me from the wall. I make tea in the quiet, hands steady despite the little flutter in my chest. I think about the library conversation—about her fear and my promise. I think about the small hidden tab we added to the app and how useful it will be.
I whisper something like a vow: "I'll be careful. I'll be here." The words are not grand, but they sit in the small space between responsibility and desire.
There is a long future ahead, full of exams, shifts, and paperwork. But tonight the future has a seam I can hold: a project finished with a friend at my side, a secret shared and kept, and the knowledge that sometimes healing starts with tiny things—a repaired laptop, a small feature that keeps a secret, a cigarette shared behind a discreet wall, a promise kept.
I close my laptop and tuck the photo under my pillow. Sleep comes with the steadiness of someone who has accomplished a task. Tomorrow is work and classes and code to refine. Tomorrow I will be tired and I will still show up.
For the first time in a long while, I feel like the kind of person who can do that—who can keep a handful of small truths and still move forward. It's not heroic. It's not dramatic. It's simply the kind of steady, careful thing that maybe, in time, becomes enough.
And in the quiet, as the city hums and the vending machines wait for morning, a small ember of something warms the corner of my chest. It is not love yet. It is not even a promise. It is the little heat of recognition—a seed of knowing that someone else sees you, and maybe, when you both are ready, you will learn to stay.