Quiet fills the space, and Yata bounces one foot as he turns the food in the wok. He’s alone and no one’s here.
He never knew how much noise Saruhiko used to make until there was no clack of typing keys or those quiet sounds when he clicked his tongue in displeasure or disgust, no rustling of clothing or blanket, no quiet footfalls on the threadbare carpet. The toilet doesn’t flush in the background, no clank against the bunk bed railing. The door doesn’t open or click shut. No thunk of small objects tossed.
He turns off breakfast, eats—alone.0