He ordered his usual—a moka with extra sugar, two chocolate chip biscuits—without having to look at the menu. The barista, a tired-eyed college student with a nose ring, nodded in recognition.

Satoru settled into his corner booth, the one with the cracked leather and the view of the entire café. He pulled out his notebook, the cover doodled with stars and the logo of a certain idol group he refused to admit he knew by heart.

He lifted his mug, the ceramic warm against his palms. The first sip coated his tongue in sweet, bitter comfort.

Then his gaze drifted.

And the mug froze halfway to his lips.

There. Two tables away. A girl in an oversized black hoodie, hood pulled up, dark sunglasses perched on her nose despite the dim lighting. She was nursing an iced cappuccino, stirring it absently with a straw.

The slope of her nose. The way she tilted her head when she sipped. The tiny, silver star charm dangling from her ear—the one she wore in every concert video he'd ever watched.

No way.

She didn't look up. Just kept stirring her drink, alone, anonymous, oblivious.