Bread & Threads: A Quirky Next-Door Romance

“Hello. Here’s something fresh from my bakery next door.” She accepts the small paper bag with a quiet nod. This woman is Ms. Watanabe Tomori, who works at the apparel shop adjacent to my bakery. She has a name that sounds bright and cheerful, yet her demeanor is always calm and expressionless—almost as if she misplaced her emotions somewhere. Customers praise her for being “cool and stylish,” but to me, she’s a mystery I can’t quite figure out. By the way, I’m Sasaki Rei, age 27, and I run a small bakery called Blanc et Blanc. We’ve been a local favorite for five years now, and baking bread every day is my passion. Recently, though, I’ve found myself surprisingly curious about Ms. Watanabe next door. One day, I decide to strike up a conversation. “Which kind of bread do you like?” I ask. “I don’t have a preference,” she replies bluntly. I never imagined someone would answer so directly; usually there’s a bit more back-and-forth. But that’s exactly how Ms. Watanabe is—no unnecessary fuss or emotion. It’s like she’s perfected that minimalistic customer-service style. “Oh… I see. Then… how about a croissant?” When I hand her a paper bag with a croissant, the bottom suddenly tears and the pastry tumbles onto the floor. You’d think anyone would gasp or panic, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just stands there, watching it roll away. I quickly offer to replace it, but before I can, Ms. Watanabe picks up the dropped croissant. “I can wash it, so it’s fine,” she says, completely serious. No, no, no—that’s definitely not fine! You can’t just wash bread! As a baker, I can’t allow that. So I insist on giving her a new one. She quietly accepts, and the incident ends. But the stiff, robotic way she tried to retrieve the fallen croissant remains burned into my memory. Later that day, back in my bakery, I can’t help mulling it over. Ms. Watanabe is oddly intriguing. Her stoic composure seems almost inhuman, yet I find myself oddly drawn to it. A few days pass. One afternoon, after the usual rush subsides, the door chime rings softly. I look up to see Ms. Watanabe, wearing her usual unreadable expression, holding a small paper bag. “This is a thank-you for the other day,” she says, her voice as detached as ever. But I sense the slightest trace of feeling beneath that calm exterior, especially when she sets the bag down carefully on the counter. Inside, I find small packs of coffee beans and a few drip coffee bags. “Oh, thank you so much!” I exclaim. “Did you pick these out yourself?” She nods. “Yes, but I wasn’t sure what to get. I heard bakers often like coffee…” The way she trails off makes her sound almost shy. Hearing that she took the time to choose something for me makes me genuinely happy. “I’m really glad. I’ll definitely enjoy them,” I say, and she responds with a short “You’re welcome” before heading out, giving a slight bow. I watch her leave, the paper bag still in my hands. I find it amusing—this otherwise no-nonsense woman apparently went to the trouble of figuring out what I might like. Somehow, that simple act feels like a small step toward understanding her. Gazing from behind my bakery counter at her apparel shop, I realize I want to see what’s behind her neutral facade. The next day, as usual, I’m baking bread while occasionally glancing through the window at her shop. Then I spot her standing in front of a display window, doing something peculiar—tilting her head, moving her mouth in strange ways. It looks like she’s practicing a smile in the reflection, but it’s so stiff and unnatural that it’s hard to watch without concern. “Ms. Watanabe, are you all right?” I call out instinctively. She turns around slowly, her face bright red—completely unlike her usual calm self. All of a sudden, she blurts out, “Don’t look at me! You… you worthless worm!” Worthless worm…? Did she really just say that? Stunned, I stand there, unable to process her random insult. Face burning, she dashes to the back of the store, leaving me speechless. Why call me a worthless worm of all things? Several days later, on another quiet afternoon, she visits my bakery again and musters an apology. Her hands tremble slightly as she speaks. “I’m so sorry for calling you… worthless worm. I was flustered and it slipped out. I used to say it to my younger brother a lot, and I guess it became a habit,” she explains, bowing her head. The idea that such a bizarre phrase was normal in her family is baffling, but at least she came to apologize. As I assure her it’s fine, she hesitates, then asks me a sudden question: “Do you have plans on your next day off? I have these half-price coupons for a manga café, but my brother canceled on me. Would you… go with me?” A manga café for twelve hours? I’m honestly puzzled—why not just go alone? Still, she admits she’s never entered a*****e by herself and doesn’t want to stay there that long on her own. It’s hard to refuse when she looks so anxious, so I say yes. When the morning of our plan arrives, I meet her in front of the station. She’s dressed in a simple black outfit and seems oddly tense. We walk fifteen minutes to reach the café. Ms. Watanabe shows the coupons at the front desk and pays for both of us. Once we’re in our booth, she immediately pulls out a list of manga she wants to read. “I’d like to be efficient,” she says. “Also, please don’t talk to me.” For a moment, I’m sure she almost calls me “worthless worm” again, but she catches herself. Trying not to feel too deflated, I sit quietly. Time passes, and though I start a few manga, I lose focus. Twelve hours is a long time. Suddenly, I hear her giggle. When I glance over, I catch Ms. Watanabe smiling—actually smiling—at a funny scene in her comic. It’s so genuine and carefree that I’m surprised this is the same woman who rarely shows emotion. Her laugh mesmerizes me, making me want to see more of these rare glimpses. By the time we finish, it’s nine at night. Stepping outside into the cool air, we begin walking back. After a short distance, she stops near a convenience store. “Mr. Sasaki,” she says, her voice wavering slightly. “Thank you for spending these twelve hours with me. It helped a lot.” “Oh… no problem,” I reply, still a bit uncertain if I’d call it “fun.” But getting to see her real smile was definitely worth it. She drops her gaze, takes a small step closer, and speaks in a trembling voice. “Um… Mr. Sasaki… I… about you…” My heart pounds. Is she about to confess? “I think… you’re not a worthless worm,” she blurts out. “Why start there!?” I protest, my eyes wide. This is the strangest lead-in to a confession I’ve ever heard. She flushes again, clearly flustered. “No, that’s not what I meant to say,” she stammers. “I mean… I like you, Mr. Sasaki.” I stand there, stunned. Why me? Is she serious? My mind is spinning, but she continues in a subdued voice. “I’ve always thought that bakers have a role like… supporting heroes. Because if there’s no bread, the hero can’t unleash their power.” She’s obviously referencing something along the lines of Anp*n-man, where the hero relies on bread. I may not see myself as a heroic sidekick, but she does—and for some reason, it touches me. “That’s why, when you gave me bread the other day, I felt… you were giving me strength.” So a single croissant made her see me as a steadfast supporter. Well, I guess I can’t argue if it brought us to this moment. She takes a breath and looks straight at me. “I feel like you’re always giving me support. And I found myself… starting to like you.” Her words take me by surprise, and yet, they feel oddly genuine. So I find myself replying as naturally as I can. “I… had no idea. Thank you. I’ve been curious about you, too, Ms. Watanabe.” Relief softens her expression, and she smiles—a small but sincere smile. “From now on… please keep being around. Also… bring me more bread,” she adds with a faint blush. In her eyes, that bread must be a kind of power source. Maybe I’m destined to be her behind-the-scenes bread-bringer, but you know what? That doesn’t sound so bad at all. We walk side by side down the quiet street, her confession still echoing in my ears. Who would’ve guessed that a fallen croissant and a 12-hour manga marathon would lead to this? But here we are—and somehow, it feels just right.