Frost and Flame

Weather Dependent

Those words, “both parents are invited,” blinked on the screen like a reprimand. Administrative. Neutral. Completely indifferent to the fact that their “agreement between parents” was a quiet minefield of regret and avoidance.

She had not replied yet. She wondered whether Souta had already read it. Whether he would come. Whether they would stand in the same room, surrounded by other intact families, and pretend that the two-meter distance between them was a choice, not a consequence.

In the lobby, she saw Souta glance toward his own phone lying on the table, its screen dark. Was he postponing it, too?

“How long do you plan to stay?” Sayaka asked. The words came out before she could stop them.

Souta looked surprised, just briefly, a flicker in his eyes before the wall dropped again.

“I’m not sure.”

“Depends on the weather,” she finished the sentence, and there was something bitter at the back of her tongue.

“Yes.”

A pause. Sharper than before.

Sayaka smiled reflexively, her facial muscles moving with the memory of what a smile was supposed to do. “Of course.”

Of course. The words became their mantra, an acknowledgment of things that did not need to be said. Of course, you leave for your job. Of course, I stay behind. Of course,e this hurts. Of course, we don’t talk about it.

“All right,” Souta said finally, shifting his weight. “I should—”

“Yes,” Sayaka cut in, too quickly. “Of course.”

They moved to leave at the same time, then stopped, their bodies aware of the narrow space between the desk and the brochure rack. They nearly collided.

“Sorry,” Souta murmured, stepping back half a step.

“No—it’s my fault. Please.”

She passed him, and although there was no contact, the air shifted between them, carrying with it his faint scent—the simple resort soap, and beneath it, something deeper, more personal: the smell of skin, snow in wool, and a sadness long settled.

—

On the stair landing, Souta stopped, placing his flat palm against the cold wooden wall. The vibration of the generator traveled upward, through the building’s frame, into his bones. Fifty-six to fifty-eight decibels, he estimated. Efficiencyis around seventy percent. Enough for basic needs.

Data. Always data.

But data could not measure what had just happened. It could not measure the weight of the silence between “Please” and “Thank you.” It could not map the topography of disappointment in Sayaka’s voice when she said “Of course.”

He climbed the remaining stairs, each step deliberately. In front of room 307, he automatically took out his key. It did not fit. He frowned, checked the number, then the key in his hand. A quick correction, expressionless. 312.

Behind him, a door opened. A young woman, her hair wrapped in a towel, peeked out. Her eyes were full of curiosity, perhaps looking for drama, or simply bored. Souta bowed slightly, a stiff formality, and the woman quickly closed the door.

He entered his own room. The silence here was different—intentional, chosen. His notebook lay open on the desk, the pen beside it like a surgical instrument waiting. He did not approach it. Instead, he stood in front of the window, staring at the snow that kept falling.

His mind, against his will, replayed the interaction.

Duration: 2 minutes, 14 seconds (approximate).

Verbal content: 37 words spoken (19 of them his).

Topics: Weather (safe), facilities (functional), length of stay (dangerous, closed).

Body language: Eye avoidance, closed posture, physical distance maintained at >1.2 meters.

Conclusion: Interaction failed to achieve any communicative objective beyond confirmation of uncomfortable co-presence.

And beneath that analysis, in the section of notes he would never write, a quieter voice asked: What was my goal? What did I expect? A confession? An apology? A sign that she was hurt,t too?

He did not know. Maybe he only wanted confirmation that they had not yet become ghosts to each other entirely.

—

The afternoon crept by with a growing malaise, tension built not by dramatic events, but by the accumulation of small frictions.

Sayaka went to the dining room for tea. The communal teapot was nearly empty. Another guest, hurried and not seeing her, poured the last of it into his cup and left. Sayaka stood for a moment, staring at the empty kettle, before taking another one. Her tea was too strong, bitter on her tongue. As she carried her tray, the cup wobbled, and a drop of black tea fell onto the white napkin. A small stain, almost insignificant, but her eyes lingered on it for a long time. It looked like a mistake.

In the corridor, they passed each other again. She was carrying her bag; he was straightening his scarf. Their gazes met—not intentionally, unavoidable in this narrow hallway. Just one second. Long enough to see that Souta’s eyes were not truly empty; there was fatigue there, a deep appraisal. Then he looked down, and the moment passed.

—

PERSONAL NOTE – SOUTA’S NOTEBOOK

Day 3, 15:47

Pressure dropping again. 992 hPa. Northeast wind 25 km/h, with gusts up to 40. Snow: 15 cm accumulated since morning, additional 20–30 cm expected overnight.

Second interaction in the lobby. Shorter. More awkward.

She asked how long I’m staying. Why? Was she hoping I’d leave? Or… stay?

She’s still using that leather bag. The corners are worn. I remember her opening that gift, her eyes shining. She said it was too extravagant. But she always carries it.

Sometimes I think: if I can predict the weather accurately ninety-five percent of the time, why do I fail at predicting this? At predicting how it would feel to see her again, here, with all the unspoken words echoing between us like reverberation in a deep valley.

The storm is expected to continue for another 48–72 hours. Time. Too much and too little.

—

Toward dusk, Sayaka sat in front of her laptop in her room. The email from the school was still open, the cursor blinking in the empty reply box, demanding a decision.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Dear Shiroishi School Staff,

Thank you for the reminder. I, Hoshino Sayaka, will attend the Open Day. Regarding

Kirishima Souta, I—

She stopped. Deleted.

Dear Staff… I will attend. Kirishima Souta may also attend, but I suggest you contact him directly for confirmation because—

Deleted again. It sounded defensive, as if she were making excuses for him.

She took a deep breath and opened a new tab. Typed an email address she still knew by heart.

TO: souta.kirishima@…

SUBJECT: (blank)

Souta,

I received an email from Kaito’s school about the Open Day. I know this might be uncomfortable. If you plan to attend, maybe we could—

Her fingers froze above the keyboard. Could they? Could they stand there together, as a unit, after all this? Or would it only become another performance, a deception for teachers and other parents?

She pressed the backspace key hard, deleting the words until only a blank screen remained. Then she closed the laptop.

Instead, she took her phone and opened the Notes app. Between shopping lists and lesson ideas was a note titled “Things That Might Someday.” She scrolled down, adding a new line:

— Kaito’s Open Day (25 Dec). Ask him. Don’t arrange. Don’t assume. Just ask.

It was progress, at least. An acknowledgment that communication needed to happen. That the responsibility was shared.

—

Night fell, and with it, the storm drew its second breath. The wind roared around the corners of the building, throwing clumps of snow against the windows with renewed force. The lights flickered once, twice, then stayed on—but at reduced brightness, like half-closed eyes.

In room 313, Sayaka stood in front of the window, her reflection faint in the frost-coated glass. She thought about the pen in the lobby. Her automatic smile. The tea stain on the napkin. Every small interaction felt like a test she had failed, even though there were no correct answers.

In room 312, Souta stood in the same position, looking out at the snowdrifts forming beneath the pine trees outside. He thought about her question: How long are you staying? Was it a veiled invitation? Or a request for a deadline?

In the corridor between them, the wooden floor creaked softly. A step. Then stillness. Souta moved into his room. Sayaka heard it, her ears catching the sound even though it was very faint. She did not feel disturbed; instead, there was something strangely calming in knowing that he was there, separated by one thin wall and a thousand unspoken things.

The first failed interaction had passed, leaving a subtle yet persistent residue in the air. Not an open wound, but a bruise—a sensitivity that would ache whenever they came too close.

The hope that this confined space would make everything easier had faded, replaced by a more complex and more painful reality: they had spoken. They had shared space. They had acknowledged each other’s existence, and in that acknowledgment, they found that the wound was still fresh, still able to breathe.

It was not a victory.

But it was not the end either.

It was a ceasefire—temporary, fragile, built on a foundation of silence and cut-off gestures. But for tonight, amid the raging storm that was dismantling the world outside, that fragile ceasefire felt like something that almost reached peace.