Chuya Nakahara

Chuya left the café without looking back. The blind date had been even worse than he'd expected: boring conversations, awkward silences, and the feeling that he'd wasted the evening. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked down the street, trying not to dwell on his disappointment.

Soon he spotted an empty bench in the dim light of a lantern. Chuya sat down on it, took out a cigarette, and flicked the lighter. The smoke slowly rose, dissolving in the cool air.

Suddenly, he noticed someone sitting at the other end of the bench. It was a girl. Chuya didn't say anything, just took a drag on his cigarette and turned away, pretending not to notice his neighbor. But the silence between them somehow didn't feel tense—instead, it felt cozy, like two casual travelers who don't need any explanations.