●・○・●・○・●
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
late night walks

—

༇ THE days bleed into each other like watercolors that have been drained by kids. Baya forgets what day it is more often than not. Morning and night lose their meaning. She wakes only when her body tells her to, and even then, it's with a kind of confusion. At night, she either falls asleep immediately, it takes hours to fall asleep, or she doesn't sleep at all.

She doesn't cry. She hasn't in days. Not even when she tried. She sat on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor one night, curled her knees into her chest, and waited for the tears to come, but they didn't. Just a hollowness that sits in her stomach and stretches up her ribs, behind her eyes, in her fingertips.

There's no anger, no fear, no heartbreak. Not even the sharp sting of betrayal. Just... nothing.

And yet, not nothing.

Something is off. Deep in her chest, just under the skin. She has the unshakable feeling that something enormous is missing. Something she should be holding onto, clutching tight, relying on. But there's nothing in her hands. There's no memory she can touch.

She doesn't speak to anyone. Hamada has mostly given up trying. Baya doesn't move. She barely leaves the bed unless it's to collapse on the couch instead. She doesn't eat, except when Hamada threatens to kick her out if another bowl of rice goes cold. Even then, she eats mechanically.

Her phone lies facedown on the table beside her. When she does glance at it, a dozen missed notifications stare back. There are emails from the university:

You have failed to attend your last two seminars. This is a formal warning.
If you do not respond or return to your practical course this week, we will begin the process of withdrawal. Please contact your advisor as soon as possible.

She stares at the words, reading them again and again, waiting for panic to settle in. For fear. For regret. It should matter. She should care. She wanted this—her course, her future, her plans. She fought for it. Crawled her way through whatever the hell her life used to be, just to get here. Now it feels like it's worth nothing.

A whisper follows her from room to room, brushing against the back of her neck. A sense of absence cuts deep. She doesn't know what it is. Can't put her finger on it. It's like a song she used to know by heart and can't quite remember the words to.

Her body feels heavier every day. Even lifting her arm to scratch an itch feels like too much. Sometimes she lies there for hours, unmoving, her breath so shallow she forgets it's there. Other times she paces, walking from the kitchen to the window and back again, over and over until her feet ache.

She doesn't shower unless the sweat starts to cling. She doesn't brush her teeth unless Hamada bangs on the door and yells at her like she's a child. Sometimes she doesn't even notice she's crying until she touches her face and finds her cheeks wet, not from sadness, just... leaking.

She doesn't look in mirrors anymore. Her reflection unsettles her. The light that used to live in her face is gone. Time stops making sense. One morning she sits on the floor in the hallway and watches the light move across the carpet for what feels like minutes but turns out to be hours. The sun dips. The sky darkens. She's still in the same position, legs folded awkwardly under her, arms limp at her sides. Her phone buzzes once. Then again.

Sometimes, she considers going outside. Walking into the street. Lying down on the pavement. Disappearing. But even that feels like too much work. Instead, she sits. Or lies down. Or stares at the wall.

And always there's that missing piece. That huge void where something used to be.

●・○・●・○・●

Hamada has had enough. Her tone cuts through the air of the apartment, through the thick silence Baya has wrapped herself.

She stands in front of the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight. Baya doesn't look up.

"You're going," Hamada says. "You're going to the hospital. You're gonna get your heart checked up again. You're gonna tell Shuntarō that I told him to get you some antidepressants or whatever medicine he recommends. And then... then you're going to talk to him."

Still no response from Baya.

"I mean it," Hamada presses. "You're going to ask him if he wants to take you on one of his stupid walks around the damn hospital garden. Or if he can find you something small to do. Folding files. Holding a clipboard. I don't care. Anything that makes you move for more than ten minutes."

She doesn't stop. Her words come like bullets now. "You're going to ask him to make you tea, or let you watch those weird documentaries he likes. You're going to sit with him while he reads, even if neither of you talks. You'll eat with him if he eats. You'll help him organize that drawer of a thousand pens. You're going to tell him what food you've actually been able to keep down, and you're going to ask if there's anything he can do about the dizziness. You're going to ask him to help you make a schedule, so you stop rotting in this apartment like a ghost."

Silence. Hamada sighs. "I'm not asking anymore. You either get up and go, or I call Shuntarō myself and tell him every detail of how you've been holding up the past weeks.

Still, Baya doesn't move. Her lips barely move as she responds, with a hoarse, slow voice, "Chishiya is just my doctor."

"Your point?"

"He's not my caretaker and he also won't care about what you're saying right now."

Hamada disappears and comes back with Baya's jacket. She throws it onto the couch beside her and tosses her phone into her lap.

And that's how Baya finds herself in a cab ten minutes later, staring blankly out the window as the city rushes by. Hamada practically pushed her inside the cab.

She doesn't remember giving the driver the address. She doesn't remember Hamada paying him either. All she knows is the blur of buildings and lights slipping past the glass, cold against her forehead as she leans into it.

By the time the cab stops, she almost doesn't notice. The driver's voice slices through the haze and she just stares. It takes a second too long for her to open the door. Her feet hit the pavement, one after the other, like she's walking through mud.

She drags herself inside of the hospital, not because she wants to, but because it's easier than going home and listening to Hamada throw another fit. The woman at the front desk recognizes her. Baya says Chishiya's name, and the woman nods and makes a call before she tells Baya to sit and wait.

Her legs bounce, then still. Her hands clench, then loosen. A nurse walks by. A janitor hums as he pushes a cart. None of it feels real. Not until she hears that voice, "Yuzuki Baya?"

She looks up slowly. Dr. Chishiya stands at the end of the corridor, in his usual white coat, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand. He looks almost exactly the same but there's the faintest twitch in his brow. He's surprised.

"Did you make an appointment?" he asks, flat, but not unkind.

She doesn't answer.

He eyes her for a beat longer, then gestures. "Come on."

She follows.

They walk through white halls. Her footsteps echo louder than his. In his office, he motions to the chair across from his desk. She doesn't sit.

"You've lost weight," he notes. "You look pale."

She shrugs.

He sighs and sits down, setting the clipboard aside. For a moment, he just looks at her. Baya hates how much she feels it. Like the air between them thickens.

"Why are you here?" he finally asks.

"Hamada," she mutters.

His lips twitch like he might smile. "Of course."

"She said... you should give me antidepressants. Or something. And make me walk."

"And did she also tell you I'm not a psychiatrist?" A pause. "Either way, you shouldn't be alone."

She wants to argue. She wants to laugh. Instead, her knees bend, and she slowly lowers herself into the chair across from him.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she says. "I can't feel anything. But I keep... knowing something's missing."

Chishiya doesn't say anything for a long time. He just gets up. "I don't have antidepressants. You need to visit a pharmacy for that," he says, pulling something out. "But I do have chocolate chip cookies."

She stares.

"You're serious?"

"Deadly."

She continues staring.

He exhales through his nose and turns to rummage through the drawer. "You know, I once read a paper about post-traumatic anhedonia being closely linked to cortisol-resistant depressive episodes."

He pulls out two mugs and tosses a teabag into each one. "Loss of appetite, loss of sleep, irritability, emotional flatlining, dissociation, cognitive sluggishness... sound familiar?" He lifts an eyebrow as he pours hot water from a small kettle into the mugs.

Baya stares at her lap.

He sits again, hands wrapped around his own mug. "You're not dying. Not physically, at least. Your vitals were fine the last time I checked, and unless you've decided to start recreational heroin, I'd guess they still are."

That earns him a slow blink from Baya. Not quite a reaction, but enough.

"You're not broken. You're overwhelmed. Which isn't as poetic, but it's more treatable. The mind forgets before the body does. It buries things. But the body keeps the score. It remembers pain. It remembers fear. Even if you don't."

Baya finally lifts her eyes. "Comforting."

He picks up the cookie packet, opens it, and slides it toward her. "Eat one. Or don't. But if you sit here staring at the wall like a Victorian widow for the next twenty minutes, I'm going to call Ito and make her come read you medical journals out loud."

Baya blinks again.

A breath leaves her that might've been a laugh. Or maybe just a hiccup of surprise. She does reach for a cookie. Her fingers are slow, uncertain, but they close around it. It crumbles when she takes a bite. It's dry and sweet. Her first taste of something in days.

He watches her eat, then looks away, sipping his tea. And eventually, he glances at the clock.

"Visiting hours are over," he says flatly, standing and gathering his mug and clipboard. "Technically, you're not even supposed to be here without an appointment. But I'll pretend I needed help diagnosing my own burnout. I'll walk you out."

She slowly stands, pulling her jacket tighter around her. They leave the office in silence. The halls are mostly empty now. The elevator doors glide open with a soft ding. Chishiya steps inside first, hands in his coat pockets, and Baya follows.

Chishiya's phone vibrates. He glances at it. Baya catches Ito's name. He swipes it open, reads silently.

"Your babysitter has instructed me not to return you until I've confirmed you're 'functionally alive'."

Baya sighs.

"She's worried. Understandably. I'm your doctor. Which, unfortunately, means I now have to honor her request."

"I thought you said you're not a psychiatrist."

"I'm not," he says. "But being a doctor means I can still check your blood pressure, your pulse, your weight. Ask about your diet, your sleep, your bowel movements—"

She groans softly.

"—and determine, based on that data, whether I'm handing you over to your roommate or filing an inpatient hold."

The elevator stops. They step into the quieter wing of the hospital.

"Come on," Chishiya says, over his shoulder. They end up in a small, private exam room. Baya sits on the exam table while Chishiya sets everything up—checking equipment, pulling on gloves... "Take off your jacket."

Chishiya goes through the routine: blood pressure cuff, stethoscope against her chest, fingers pressed to her wrist. He barely speaks as he works, though occasionally he mutters things like 'Heart rate's a little low,' or 'You've lost more weight than you should have.'

When it's done, he types a few notes onto a screen and peels off his gloves.

"You're not dying," he says simply. "But you're not in good shape either."

"I could've told you that."

"Yes, but now it's official."

There's a long pause. Baya swings her legs a little where she sits. "Why are you being nice to me? You don't look like the type to..."

He gives her a look. "I gave you one cookie. And a lecture about your bowels. If you think this is nice, I worry for your social circle."

Outside, they don't head for the cab. Chishiya veers toward the exit on the opposite side of the hospital, the one that leads to the long street lined with vending machines and trees. She doesn't question it. Just follows.

The cold air hits her as soon as the doors open. She tucks her hands into her jacket pockets and tightens her arms around herself, while Chishiya doesn't flinch. His white coat is too thin for the chill, but he walks like it doesn't matter.

Neither of them speaks for a while. The city hums faintly around them. The sound of distant traffic, a drunk couple laughing somewhere across the street, the sound of a convenience store door opening and closing. Baya watches her breath fog as they walk.

"Where are we going?" she asks eventually.

"Nowhere," he replies.

They pass a closed flower shop. Then a man sitting on a plastic stool, smoking. He glances at them but says nothing.

"You know," Baya says after a while, "I thought being numb would be easier."

Chishiya tilts his head slightly, like he's listening, but doesn't interrupt.

"I thought if I didn't feel anything, then maybe it wouldn't hurt. But it's like... the pain is just waiting. Under everything. I can't feel it, but I know it's there. And that's worse."

He doesn't answer. Just keeps walking beside her, his pace slow enough to match hers.

They wander like that for blocks, past a bookstore, past an alley that smells like oil, past a row of windows. Baya doesn't speak again until they reach a crosswalk.

"I think I lost something. I don't remember what it was," she whispers. "But I know it was important."

Chishiya doesn't ask questions. Just says, "You don't need to remember it for it to hurt."

She stares at the red traffic light. Then, slowly, "I think it was a person. Or maybe multiple."

"You'd be surprised," he says, "how often people lose someone and don't realize it until their whole body starts shutting down."

The light turns green. They keep walking.

They don't talk much after that. Chishiya buys her a can of warm lemon tea from a vending machine without asking. She doesn't thank him, but she drinks it slowly, letting the heat burn her tongue.

They walk until the city starts to thin and the quiet increases. Only then does he stop, glance at her, and say, "You've passed the test."

"What test?"

"You walked more than twenty minutes and didn't collapse. Congratulations. You're officially alive."

Baya exhales something between a laugh and a sigh.

They find a wooden bench, hidden under the shadow of a rusted streetlamp. Baya sits without thinking, her legs aching more than she wants to admit. The cold seeps through her jeans, biting at her knees. She stares blankly ahead.

The weight of her limbs, the fog in her head, the constant numbness... they all blur into a single hum.

So when Chishiya's fingers curl around her wrist, she doesn't pull away. Doesn't flinch. Just blinks down at his hand like she's seeing it through water.

"What are you doing?" she asks, voice low.

"Nothing," he responds.

His thumb shifts slightly, pressing down. His other fingers rest firmly but gently beneath the bone.

She frowns. "Seriously. What—?" Baya pulls her wrist back slightly, eyeing him with a mix of confusion and suspicion. "You're not trying to seduce me, are you?"

"Seduce you?" He repeats. "If I wanted to do that, I'd do it better."

The sharpness of his response catches her off guard. Baya just stares at him for a moment, mouth slightly open, before she scoffs. "Oh, so you're a pro at this, huh?"

"All I know is how to get a pulse."

"Wait. You're checking my pulse?" she says. "Why didn't you say that earlier? I thought you were trying to make me uncomfortable or something!"

"I wasn't trying to make you anything," he says dryly. "You're just sensitive."

"Doesn't explain why you were practically fondling my wrist."

Chishiya raises an eyebrow, a signature move. "Fondling? I didn't fondle anything."

"Well, you sure as hell gave it a good try." She huffs out an exaggerated breath and leans back. "I don't know what's worse—the fact that you thought I wouldn't notice or that you tried to get away with it so casually."

"Does it matter? You're still alive. I'm checking that you're still alive, and if you don't like it, I can just stop."

Her face softens. "I didn't say I didn't like it." She shifts. "I just didn't get it."

The corners of his lips lift just the faintest bit. "You bicker when you're upset. But it helps. You no longer look like a ghost."

She pulls a face.

"I'm not wrong. Bickering might just be your way of coping."

"Incorrect," she protests.

"You could wake up after almost dying and still find a way to argue."

"Now you're just provoking me into more bickering!"

"It's working. Five more minutes and we're calling it a night. I've met corpses with more energy."

Baya rolls her eyes. She stays seated, staring up at the sky.