VOLUME III: 44 – Not In The Mood

I left the restaurant before anyone could pretend to walk me out. The night slapped me in the face. Too cold, too bright, too honest after all that polite poison.

I half-walked, half-trudged through the downtown blocks in my discount flats, hugging my cheap coat like it could hold my insides in place.

I didn’t want to go home yet. Didn’t want to answer Akane’s inevitable “Did you get home safe?” Didn’t want to scroll Twitter and see my old fans posting old clips like I'm already dead.

I just needed ten minutes. A cigarette. A puddle to scream into. Something.

So I ducked into a 24-hour bodega I’d only ever seen from the bus window, which was squeezed between a vape shop and a boarded-up laundromat. The inside smelled like stale incense and too many sad sandwiches.

Perfect. Feral enough for me.

I wandered the aisles like a ghost. Grabbed a packet of cigarettes and a can of cheap coffee I knew I wouldn’t like.

My phone buzzed, then buzzed again — Akane, obviously — and I smashed the screen face-down into my bag like a murder confession.

When I shuffled up to the register, someone was already there — half-blocking the gum rack, bickering with the old uncle at the counter about a price of a microwave burrito.

“…Sir, that brand isn’t two-for-three, that’s the budget brand—”

“It’s literally bean mush and a crime against tortillas, how premium can it be—?”

The voice clicked in my head. Calm. Eager. Slightly too good for this neon box.

I squinted. And then I saw him properly: neat coat, corporate badge half-tucked into his pocket, hair slicked back like he’d been stuck in meetings until five minutes ago.

Oh. Parfait staff guy.

What was his name again? Weather? Whisker? Something with a W.

He turned halfway — caught my eye — and recognition flickered behind his glasses. He gave me the world’s smallest nod, like he’d just spotted an embarrassing stray cat.

“Ketsusaki,” he said. Not a question. A pin through my last nerve.

My throat scraped raw. “Don’t call me that,” I croaked, fumbling my can onto the counter.

The bodega uncle, caught between us, blinked twice. “Uh… do you two pay separate—?”

“Yes,” I snapped. Then, softer: “Sorry. Yes.”

Parfait Guy didn’t flinch. He paid for his burrito and a sad bag of off-brand chips, bagged it himself, then moved aside like he had all the time in the world to watch me crumble.

I grabbed my change, my tragic can, and headed for the door— but of course the bells jingled right behind me, and there he was again, falling into step beside me like I’d invited him to ruin my last shred of peace.

“Not stalking you,” he said mildly. “Just parked this way.”

“Good for you.”

"The burritos here are good, so..."

Silence. Our footsteps echoed together over the damp sidewalk. His eyes flicked to the corner of my paper bag. The cigarette pack peeking out.

“You smoke,” he said mildly.

I snorted, hugging it closer. “Special occasions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “This counts?”

“Tonight’s a real party, my dude.”

He hummed, like he could argue, but wouldn’t bother and kept pace with me down the damp sidewalk. He didn’t fill it with fake chit-chat. Didn’t ask why such coincidence we bumped into each other.

Instead, he stated, perfectly casual, “That dress looks proper.”

I barked a half-laugh that tasted like tears. “Don’t start.”

He hummed. “Alright. I won’t.”

We reached the corner where the tiny parking lot spat tired cars into the city night. He dug in his coat pocket, pulled out keys, and paused before unlocking his door.

“Want a lift?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

He loaded his pitiful burrito into the passenger seat. Then, he turned back, hands in his coat pockets, and expression too awake for midnight on a Sunday.

“You’re gonna throw that coffee up on an empty stomach.”

“Do I look like I care, Parfait Guy?”

His mouth twitched— maybe a smirk, maybe not. “Weaver.”

“What?”

“My name. Weaver. So you know which staff guy you’re cursing out when you blame us for everything.”

I didn’t have a comeback for that. The city wind did it for me, whipping my coat open like a cheap magic trick.

He sighed, popped open the passenger door, rummaged through a grocery bag on the seat, and tossed me a half-crumpled store-bought sandwich.

“Eat it or throw it. But don’t stand here pretending cold air solves anything.”

I stared at the sad plastic wrap. At him. At my shoes.

Then, without saying thank you, I took a bite. Cold ham and bread and a crumb of dignity.

He just nodded, climbed into his car, and let the door slam shut between us.

I watched his taillights fade into the night.

I pulled the cigarette pack from the paper bag, tore the plastic with my teeth, and lit one with the shaky click of my lighter.

The first drag burned my throat — sharp and bitter.

One stupid sandwich. One more breath I hadn’t earned.

Fine. It tasted better than that dinner anyway.