VOLUME III: 55 – Absent Without Leave

The restaurant was one of those trendy minimalist places where the chairs looked like art installations, and the menus were printed on paper thicker than my college diploma.

Krei was already there when I arrived, leaning back in his seat like he owned the place or at least like he’d been waiting long enough to mentally purchase it. He didn’t look up from his phone when I slid into the seat across from him.

“I had to wait for twenty minutes,” he said, deadpan.

“I’m not late,” I announced, collapsing into the chair across from him. “You just got here too early, which is weirdly on-brand for you.”

He set his phone down, expression flat. “Reservation was for eight.”

“It’s 8:09.”

“That’s late.”

I opened my menu like a shield. “Okay, Mr. Board of Directors, let me live. Also—” I peeked over the menu. “Is this…fancy?”

It was fancy. The kind of place where the water was free but you knew it wasn’t really free, because you’d see it on the bill as something called hydration service.

Somewhere, a marketing intern is proud of that one.

Krei shrugged. “Had an extra reservation. Figured you could use something that wasn’t cup ramen or cereal.”

“You say that like cereal isn’t a full meal.”

“It’s not.”

Our waiter appeared, the human embodiment of polite disapproval, and took our orders. I picked the cheapest thing I could find because guilt and Krei didn’t even glance at the price column, because rich people.

This man probably thinks eggs still cost $1.29 a dozen.

Dinner went the usual way, me talking too fast about nothing, him tossing in the occasional dry remark like breadcrumbs in a forest, so I wouldn’t get completely lost.

And then dessert came.

Pudding.

Perfect, golden, glossy pudding in a little glass cup, topped with a swirl of whipped cream and a mint leaf that looked like it had been hand-picked by angels.

I took a bite. The kind of bite that makes you briefly forget the crushing reality of life. “Oh my god. This is what heaven tastes like. I’m going to marry this pudding.”

Krei didn’t look up from his plate. “Make sure it signs a prenup.”

I licked the spoon, savouring my victory. “You’re just jealous because no pudding will ever love you the way this one loves me.”

He finally looked at me, mouth twitching like he was suppressing a smile. “It’s pudding, Aoi. It doesn’t have feelings.”

“That’s what you think. This is real.”

He laughed quietly and continued sipping his drink.

“So,” I said between bites, “been busy? Or were you avoiding me because you knew I’d make you help me fix my scuffed stream overlays again?”

Krei’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I’ve been busy and avoiding you.”

“Wow. Multitasking king.”

We ate in silence for a while, comfortable in the way only two people who’ve yelled at each other over HDMI cables can be.

Frienship forged in tech rage is indestructible.

“You missed me,” I said, shovelling in a spoonful.

Krei didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth pulled into that barely-there smile again.

“You’re being overly chummy lately,” I said, pointing my spoon at him like an accusatory wand. “It’s suspicious.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Oh, shut up. I’ve been away for quite some time.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t even watch my graduation stream.”

“Oh, I did.” His tone was light, but his eyes stayed on me in that flat, unblinking way that meant he was about to drop something. “I was in Malta at the time.”

I blinked. “Oh? So you made time?”

“Just curious,” he said, swirl. “You sang again.”

That one made me pause mid-bite, spoon hovering over my pudding. I knew exactly what he was hinting at, but I wasn’t about to hand him the satisfaction.

“I know I have a beautiful voice, Krei. Don’t be so surprised.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Your mom’s been calling me non-stop asking what your ‘real job’ is.”

I blinked. “She still calls you?”

“She says Akane’s not enough to ‘get the truth out of.’”

I groaned. “So you just… entertain her?”

“I had to turn my phone off last week.”

“Well, you can just tell her I’m doing freelance. Or interpretive dance. Whatever makes her shut up.”

“She also brought up your résumé. Which, by the way, I didn’t even know she had.”

“Oh, she keeps it in a leather folder. Right next to my birth certificate and her emergency list of better daughters she could’ve had.”

“She told me to invite you to the company.”

I didn’t even look up from my pudding. “Yeah, no. I’m not going back to that wreckage.”

“I know.” He set down his glass, giving me that half-second-too-sincere look. “I’m proud of you, though. For getting this far.”

I stabbed my spoon into the pudding. “Don’t get sappy on me. It’s unsettling.”

No one warns you that the pride from someone who actually matters is dangerous. It sticks.

He leaned back, picking up his drink again. “Also, that pudding looks like it’s on trial for murder the way you’re staring at it.”

“I’m savouring,” I said. “It’s called appreciation. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you have an addiction.”

“Favourite,” I corrected, raising my spoon like a trophy. “And I regret nothing.”

He shook his head. “One day, your sugar intake is going to be the death of you.”

“Then I’ll die happy.” I took another bite, smug. “Bury me with my pudding.”

“I’ll make sure it’s sugar-free just to spite you.”

“Monster.”

He smirked. “Gremlin.”

Krei set his cup down, reached into his coat like a man who habitually kept small, unnecessary proofs of life in pockets, and slid something across the table without looking at me.

I blinked at the navy loop. “…Is that a scrunchie?”

“It is,” he said. flat. “Thought you could use one that isn’t the depressing black elastic you always wear until it snaps.”

I picked it up, turning it over. The stitching was a little uneven, soft where hands had actually finished it instead of a machine: the opposite of everything he did for a living. For a second, I wanted to make a joke about him coming back from boardrooms with artisanal hair furniture, but the look he gave me stopped the punchline halfway out of my mouth.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” I said, because apparently I lecture people about their life choices now.

“I had a long flight,” he answered, and the words came out like they didn’t want an audience.

I tugged the scrunchie onto my wrist, deliberately casual. It felt absurd and exactly right, like putting a tiny, private flag where only I could see it.

“That’s your version of ‘thank you,’ isn’t it?”

“Don’t ruin the moment, Krei.”

He didn’t press, just sipped his coffee. But I saw it, a half-smile, quick enough to miss if you weren’t looking.