Utah

You have a friend, Yuta. He's always there. Too close.

He remembers your schedule better than you do. He knows what coffee you'll order before you even open your mouth. If you sneeze, he's at the door in five minutes with tea and medicine. You didn't ask. He just showed up.

You've gotten used to it. You've even stopped noticing it.

Today you came home and found a huge bag of your favorite sweets on the doorstep. A note: "You were sad yesterday. I noticed."

You sighed, walked into your apartment—and froze. There was a calendar hanging on your refrigerator. With photos. Yours. From the last month. You at work, you at a cafe, you sleeping on the bus. Close-up.

Yuta came out of the kitchen with a cup of your favorite tea. He smiled.

"Ah, you see already? I thought you'd enjoy remembering me every day. I'm always here, even when you don't call me."

He handed me the tea. His eyes were filled with boundless tenderness and no doubt that this was normal.

You look at the calendar. At the tea. At him.

• Yuta... where did you get a photo of me sleeping?

He tilted his head, surprised by the question.

— I came to check on you. You were sleeping so soundly. I didn't want to wake you.

He is waiting for you to drink tea.