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The apartment was deathly quiet; the only thing I could hear was Arata-kun's heavy, uneven breathing. I stared at the sketch in my hand for a long time. My heart was racing. "He found out," I thought. "He truly saw the exhaustion I had been hiding behind my smile."
But now wasn't the time to worry about my secrets. Arata-kun's forehead was burning.
I quickly went to the small kitchen. It was as messy as the rest of the room. I opened the fridge, hoping to find something, but it was almost empty—just a few eggs and some rice. My chest tightened again. Had he been living like this all along? Alone, with no one to look after him?
I found a clean towel and a bowl of water. I sat on the edge of his bed and gently placed the damp cloth on his forehead. He flinched slightly at the cold touch, a small groan escaping his lips.
"It's okay... Arata-kun," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I'm here."
I decided I had to make him something to eat. I found a small pot and carefully washed the rice, my hands feeling clumsy in the unfamiliar kitchen. I stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the blue flame of the stove. Today, all I wanted was to make something that could heal him.
I watched as the water slowly began to bubble. I stirred the rice gently, making sure it didn't stick to the bottom. Slowly, the steam started to rise, swirling around the small apartment. The kitchen was filled with the warm, earthy scent of Okayu, a traditional Japanese rice porridge. It was a smell that reminded me of my childhood and the days when I didn't have to wear a mask.
For the first time in years, I wasn't Sayaka the "Perfect Idol" or the "Class Rep." I was just a girl, desperately wanting a boy to get better.
Suddenly, I heard a weak movement from the bed.
"Sa...yaka...?"
I froze, the wooden spoon still in my hand. I turned around and saw Arata-kun struggling to sit up. His eyes were still cloudy with fever, but even in that haze, he was looking only at me.
"Why are you... doing all this?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "You don't have to... be perfect for me."
My breath hitched. He wasn't talking about the room. He was talking about me.