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You usually hate doing the dishes, which leaves you here: standing in the kitchen at 2 a.m. as you rinse and wipe down your dirty dishes. You find that you like this routine of yours — the warm liquid against your hand in the cold of the night, the slow jazz in your ears, the toasty bed waiting and ready for you to fall onto. It’s nice.
You didn’t like it at all at first — the anxiety of the unwashed dishes always weighing in over your head but after the first few months, you’ve managed to resign to it.
Thud! You turn — probably just another flatmate of yours you think as you go back to your routine.
Thud! This time you stop in your tracks — turning off the tap as you wipe your hands down on the table before you pull your headphones down.
You turn only to suddenly yelp — there’s a boy standing at the entrance of your kitchen. You squint, and he definitely doesn’t live on this floor.
“Sorry — Are you alright?” the boy asks, he looks frazzled — his black hair unkempt and his green eyes bleary and hanging low.
“You just startled me,” you say, a bit scared about a random guy standing in your kitchen but he looks fairly harmless. He likely lives in the same building. “Can I help you?”
“Right — I'm sorry about that. Have you seen a cat?”
"A cat?" you echo, bewildered.
“Yeah, a black and white small thing.”
“We’re not allowed to pets…” you say.
“I know, just—” He runs his hands through his hair, “If you see this cat, can you tell me?”
"Sure, I guess," you reply, your apprehension giving way to a faint smile. "I haven't seen any cats around, though."
And just like that he’s off. He didn’t give his number, name, or anything. What the hell are you going to do if you find his cat? You don’t dwell on it, as you turn the tap on, picking up another plate to wash. You likely won’t see it.
—
You were wrong. It’s been half a day since you spoke to the boy and you’re on your walk to your lecture hall and that’s when you see it — a small black and white little thing moving with the poise and elegance of a tiger. You realize it's the same cat, the one the boy in your kitchen was searching for. It's two blocks away from your building, and you know this isn't a mere coincidence. This cat belongs to him.
Your heart fastens as you think of the frazzled boy and his request. But you do have your lecture and this cat doesn’t exactly seem or act like it is lost. Additionally, you would have no idea how to contact this guy since you don’t know anything about him. So, you should definitely make your way to your lecture hall. You should.
But alas, the cat moves, and you decide to follow it discreetly so as to not set it off running. You keep a safe distance and maintain a sort of litheness to not be heavy on your feet. You’re mirroring the cat, you can’t help but think. The cat seems to have an agenda, but you need to get to it soon so you move quickly in front of it, and it doesn’t budge a muscle, simply stopping in its track as it looks up to you. You kneel down, the touch of the gravelly road touching your bare knees as you hold out a hand. It’s lax, and still about a foot away from the cat.
It stares and it stares, as if discerning the depths of your soul before it patters across to it, slowly sniffing your hand before it softens, melting into your hand as you pet it. You smile, you just hope you can find the guy because you are, after all, going through the trouble of sneaking this little guy into your dorm room.
—
A mere two hours had passed, yet the cat had already carved out a niche for itself within the corners of your room. Having sipped a small offering of milk, it’s now nestled upon a discarded pillow you had left for its comfort. It’s slumbering deeply as you slowly step out, and pad your way out of your room.
You’re trying to find the frazzled-haired boy, and you figured the best way to do that would be to simply ask. You go downstairs to the social room where a bunch of people are scattered all around.
You ask the first group if they’ve seen a boy — with a description of his oddly distinct hair. And you turn up with answers of confused looks, and meek judgment. You shrug as you go to the next group, and at least this group pretends to try and think of people they may know but once again — nothing.
Then, amidst the sea of people, you halted before a young man near a vending machine. His hair, pink like rose petals, framed a face engrossed in contemplation over the choice between generic soft drink number 1 and generic soft number 2.
"Hey," you interjected, interrupting his contemplation.
He turns, “Heya, do you want to cut in? I might take a while," he offers, smiling so wide it makes you smile as well.
"Have you seen a guy?" you cut to the chase.
"I've seen many guys," he replies with a chuckle.
"Let me finish," you retort, deadpan. “He looks uhh— kinda like a porcupine. His hair, I mean.”
"I know exactly who you're talking about!" the pink-haired boy exclaims excitedly. "That's my boy — Fushiguro."
“Fushiguro,” you recant with a near whisper. “Can you tell me where he lives?”
“Yeah, he lives right next door to me,” he says. “And I’m heading up so—” But then he hesitates, suddenly cautious. "Wait. Wait. Wait— How do I know you're not some creep?" he asks, his expression filled with suspicion. "You could be a stalker, his crazy ex, or something."
"Do I look like a stalker? Or a crazy ex?" you ask, brows raised in mild annoyance.
“Well, the thing about crazy people is they look normal so—”
"I'm not," you reassure him. "And I promise it'll take less than 2 minutes for me to speak to him."
With that, he led you up the stairs to an adjacent building. It’s a bit more modern looking than your building, you notice. Checks out that this is a new addition.
As you hit the fourth floor, your breath is a bit haggled but you hide it with a discreet cough, as you catch your breath.
"I’m just saying— I could've been a stalker," you remark, your voice somewhat breathless. "That shouldn't have been enough to convince you."
The pink-haired boy chuckles nervously. "Stop saying that now that we're here. You even know which floor I live on. I won't be able to sleep at night, and it'll be all your fault."
As you approach Fushiguro's room, your heart races with a soft sense of anticipation. The pink-haired boy, your impromptu guide, stops in front of a door and knocks.
A few moments later, the door swings open, revealing Fushiguro standing there clad in loose-fitting attire. His unkempt hair is now slightly more tamed, perhaps having had to be at university today. Compared to the dead-like figure you had encountered earlier, he appeared considerably more alert.
"Hey, Fushiguro," the pink-haired boy says with a grin, "This person has found your cat."
Fushiguro's eyes widen just a bit as he gazes at you. "You found Toto?" he asks, disbelief and relief intertwining in his voice.
"Toto," you echoed in a hushed tone, nodding with a warm smile. "Yeah, I followed him and managed to coax him into my room. He's napping right now."
Fushiguro's tense expression softens, and he lets out a sigh of relief. "Can I come see him?" he asks.
“You can do more than that. You can take him,” you quipped lightly. “Sneaking him into my room was the most anxious I’ve been all month.”
"Thank you for finding him," he says sincerely. "I've been searching for him all day. I don't know how he got out."
The pink-haired boy chuckles. "Looks like we've got a hero here," he teases you.
You shrug, feeling a bit embarrassed but glad to have helped. "It was just a stroke of luck, really."
As you step aside to let Fushiguro into your room, he enters, and you follow him inside, closing the door behind you. Toto is still curled up on the pillow, sleeping peacefully. Fushiguro approaches the cat, and as soon as Toto hears his owner's voice, he stirs, stretching and then opening his eyes. He lets out a soft meow of recognition.
Kneeling beside his feline friend, Fushiguro gently stroked Toto's fur while conversing in hushed tones. His voice, you noticed, possessed a soothing quality that stirred something within you. He could be good at ASMR, you muse.
“Little brat,” he murmurs, his fingers running through Toto's fur.
The sight of the two of them together warms your heart just a bit. It's clear that Fushiguro cares deeply for his cat. You feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that you played a part in bringing them back together.
Fushiguro's eyes remain fixed on his beloved Toto as he gently scoops the cat into his arms. Toto purrs contentedly, nuzzling against Fushiguro's chest. His hands run over the top of Toto’s head, and you wonder if his hands are soft or rough to touch. They look calloused. You wonder why.
As you watch them, a thought crosses your mind. "You know," you say, breaking the silence, "I didn't catch your name back in the kitchen."
Fushiguro glances up from Toto, his emerald-green eyes meeting yours. There's a hint of curiosity in his gaze. "It's Megumi Fushiguro," he replies. "And you?"
You introduce yourself with a smile, as you stand there in your own room — awkward and shy all too suddenly. You wonder what the next step is. The next step is for him to leave, right?
“Thanks again for finding Toto,” he says.
“Like I said, it’s no worries,” you say. “But ah— why do you have a cat?”
“I just found him outside, and he was malnourished, I think. So, I’ve been feeding him for a month now. I’ll set him up at a shelter or have my sister take him soon. Whatever works out.”
“That’s sweet of you,” you say.
“It’s…whatever,” he says, a bit of red on his cheeks as he clears his throat. “I’ll get going now.”
You nod, reluctantly but you’re still in a daze and unsure of what you can say to make him stay.
Just as he’s about to leave, he stops, halfway through the door, but still inside your room. “Um— Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” you respond. You wonder if he was about to say something else.
You wonder as you wash your dishes that night. Sharp at 2 a.m. as you do, the rhythmic sound of water splashing against the dishes fills the room as you continue your late-night chore, humming the tune of the song playing in your ears as you go through the plates.
“Hey,” you hear, and you’re suddenly startled, your hair rising as you turn to spot Megumi Fushiguro.
“God,” you exclaimed, rinsing your hands and drying them on a towel. “Hope you don’t make it a habit to startle me,” you say as you lower your headphones.
“Sorry,” he says. “I— I came to ask you something. I know it’s creepy at this hour but I had a feeling I may catch you at this time since I did yesterday.”
“Right,” you say, gulping. “Right, what do you want to ask?”
"Coffee," he stated simply.
Your brows raise. “You want… coffee?” you inquired, turning to your shelf. "Well, I do have coffee."
"No," he clarified, "I meant, would you like some coffee?"
"I have coffee," you reiterated. "As I just mentioned..."
He tuts, “Do you want to have coffee with me?” he asks. “As a date, to be clear.”
“A date?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I— Sure,” you say with a soft smile. “Of course.”
Megumi stares back at you, soft patches of sheen wetness coating your hand, the hoodie hanging loose on your figure, and the warm yellow glow hitting your face. He wonders if this is one of those moments that are special. He wonders if that’s the reason why time seems to have slowed down just for a few quick seconds. He wonders if this image will be etched into his memory forever if he’ll recall this as he says beside you in bed, but he’s thinking too ahead — all he asked you for was coffee. He’ll just have to see how that goes first.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. At 5?” he asks.
“Yeah. At 5 — that works.” You smile.
“You listen to Amy Winehouse,” he says, and you think maybe you should offer a seat at the dining table. He looks a bit awkward standing there.
“Um—” you think, wondering why he’s asking. “Yes, why?”
“You were humming the tune earlier?” he says.
“Oh,” you raise your brows in realization. “Yeah, I do listen to her. She was my mum’s favorite artist,” you share.
“Ah. My dad liked her,” he adds, as he wonders what he’s doing — telling a stranger about his father while Yujji, a boy he’s likely the closest to besides his sister, settles for specks of information about his life. It’s odd, and suddenly Megumi feels the urge to run out of here.
“A man with great taste,” you say with a chuckle.
“Sure,” he says, a bit dejected. “Uh— I’ll get going now.”
“Right,” you say. “See you at 5 then, Megumi.”
“At 5,” he recants.
He hears the sound of tap running water as he smiles, making his way out of your kitchen.