The photo Ayumi sent — the two of them laughing under the courtyard tree — stayed at the top of Kaito's camera roll. Whenever he unlocked his phone, it was there, a quiet reminder of how much had already changed in such a short time.
In just a few weeks, Ayumi had gone from a quiet figure at the edge of his world to someone Kaito couldn't stop thinking about. Every new sign he learned, every photo they shared, and every hesitant smile they exchanged built something between them — a fragile bridge of light and silence.
But outside that quiet bubble they created for themselves, reality was far less gentle.
---
The first time Kaito invited Ayumi to sit with him and his friends at lunch, he saw it — the subtle shift in her expression. She smiled, of course, the way she always did when she was trying to put people at ease, but her hands trembled slightly as she gathered her things.
He didn't think much of it at first. Emi was her usual bubbly self, immediately launching into conversation. The others — classmates Kaito had known for years — were polite enough, but they didn't know how to engage her.
Questions directed at Ayumi stalled when they realized she couldn't hear the answers. When Ayumi glanced at Kaito, her hands hovering uncertainly, he jumped in, translating her signs to speech and back again.
It worked — to a point. But conversations in large groups were messy, with voices overlapping and topics changing too fast for Kaito to keep up. Ayumi's smile grew tighter, her hands stilling in her lap as the conversation sped past her like a river too fast to catch.
He could see her retreating, folding inward like a flower closing at dusk.
---
That night, Ayumi's usual photo exchange was missing. Instead, Kaito found himself scrolling through their past messages, the images they'd traded — tiny windows into each other's worlds. Her photos were so full of life, capturing details no one else noticed: the shimmer of rain on glass, the curve of a cat's tail, the first touch of frost on fallen leaves.
She saw so much.
And yet, when surrounded by others, she seemed to feel invisible.
---
The next day, Kaito caught up with Ayumi at the café — her usual corner table bathed in soft morning light. Her camera was in her hands, but her fingers barely moved. Instead, she was staring out the window, her expression distant.
He set down his drink, tapping the table gently to get her attention.
Her smile was immediate — warm and genuine — but Kaito could see the shadows behind it now. The smile she used to reassure others that everything was fine.
Busy yesterday? he signed.
Ayumi shook her head. Her fingers hesitated before she replied, Just tired.
He didn't need to be fluent to read between the lines.
After a moment, he signed again. Was lunch hard?
Her eyes widened, caught off guard by the question. Slowly, her hands answered, A little.
Because of me? Kaito's hands faltered slightly, unsure if he even wanted to hear the answer.
Ayumi's response was immediate — a small shake of her head. Not you. Just… groups are hard. I miss too much. Feel like I disappear.
Kaito's chest tightened at her honesty. He hadn't thought about it before, how much harder group settings must be for her — everyone speaking at once, voices overlapping, conversations speeding past with no way for her to catch up.
But she'd still come. For him.
I don't want you to feel invisible, he signed.
Ayumi's smile softened. You see me. That's enough.
It wasn't enough for Kaito.
---
He made it his mission after that — to become Ayumi's translator, her bridge into the world she often stood just outside of.
It wasn't perfect at first. His signing was still clumsy, and he often had to ask her to repeat herself when the signs came too fast. But every time a friend asked Ayumi a question, Kaito made sure the question reached her hands. When Ayumi wanted to add something, Kaito repeated her words to the group, making sure her voice was heard — even if it came through his own.
The change didn't go unnoticed.
"She's smiling more," Emi pointed out after one lunch, nudging Kaito playfully. "I think your clumsy signing's growing on her."
Kaito rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I'm just trying to help."
"Help?" Emi's grin widened. "Kaito, you're basically her personal interpreter-slash-knight-in-shining-armor."
"Stop," Kaito groaned, but the warmth in his chest lingered.
---
It wasn't always easy. Some days, the conversation moved too fast, or Ayumi's frustration surfaced in the quick, sharp movements of her hands. There were moments when Kaito could see the isolation creep back into her eyes — when laughter erupted around her, and she had no idea why.
But she never stopped trying. Neither did he.
They developed their own rhythm — a silent conversation beneath the spoken one, a glance exchanged across the table when someone made a joke, Kaito's quick, messy translation followed by Ayumi's delayed laugh. Sometimes she'd tap his wrist gently, her fingers tracing a question into his skin when she couldn't find the right sign.
Little by little, the wall between Ayumi and the world around her began to thin. Not disappear — Kaito knew it might never completely vanish — but crack just enough to let the light in.
---
The biggest test came at Emi's birthday party — a loud, crowded affair at a local izakaya. Ayumi arrived late, her camera slung across her shoulder like a shield, and the moment Kaito saw her hesitate at the door, he knew how overwhelming it must feel.
Without thinking, he crossed the room, gently placing his hand on her shoulder to guide her in. She relaxed immediately at his touch, her fingers brushing his wrist in silent thanks.
He stuck close to her side the entire night, their own quiet channel of conversation running beneath the noise. When someone made a toast, Kaito leaned in, signing the words close to her hands so she could follow along. When the music got too loud, they retreated to the quieter end of the table, where they could exchange glances and smiles instead of competing with the din.
It wasn't perfect — it couldn't be — but Ayumi's smile that night was real, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing with every small gesture Kaito made to include her.
By the end of the night, she wasn't just watching from the edges. She was part of it — laughing silently at Emi's antics, toasting with the others, and even posing for a group photo that Kaito made sure she was centered in.
---
Later, as they walked home together, Ayumi paused beneath a streetlamp, her breath visible in the cold night air.
Thank you, she signed, her fingers moving slower than usual, as if each word carried more weight.
Kaito shook his head. You don't need to thank me. I want to know your world. Even the hard parts.
Her smile faltered slightly, the vulnerability peeking through. It's hard to belong in both worlds. Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck between them. Not hearing enough for one. Not silent enough for the other.
Kaito's fingers hesitated, then he reached for her hand — not signing, just holding.
You belong here, he said softly, the words carried on his breath. With me.
He knew she couldn't hear it, but she didn't need to.
Her fingers curled around his, holding on tightly.
And in that silent space between two worlds, they stood together — not perfect, not whole, but enough.
Enough to bridge the silence. Enough to belong.
Together.
---
To Be Continue