{Our Way Home 1}

“Thank you very much!”

The customer who I called out to didn’t look back and silently passed through the automatic door.
Outside, it was already pitch black, a world apart from the brightly lit store that felt like it was still daytime. I glanced at the wall clock behind the register and saw it was just 15 minutes before 10 p.m. Only a little longer until my shift ends—about 15 minutes.

It seemed like the customers had stopped coming for a bit, and the only person in the store was the manager, restocking shelves. Overhead, the store’s jingle was playing—the same one I’ve been hearing for two years now. I’ve heard it so much that I’ve memorized even the breathing timing, though I never have a chance to sing it.

This convenience store is located in the middle of a residential area, not far from the university I attend.
Originally, a senior from my club worked here, and they introduced me when I was looking for a job. But they quit about a month after I started working, as if they needed someone to take their place.
This job isn’t what you’d call terrible, but it’s far from perfect. We’re always short-staffed, and I’ve been scheduled for five shifts a week. Once, the manager asked me, “Yamaguchi, can you work both mornings and nights?” I declined that time, but they’ve kept hinting that they’d like me to take more shifts, so now I only help out when I need extra money.

Still, somehow, I’ve been working here for two years. It’s close to the university, so my friends often drop by, and sometimes classmates from high school come in, giving me updates on their lives while I ring up customers. When I mention I’m living with my girlfriend, they usually tease me about it. We’re both 20 years old now, so I don’t think it’s particularly early or anything.

Before a shift change, we always do a quick check of the register. Who’s on the 10 p.m. shift again? I guess I’ll get things ready—just as I was about to take out the coin counter, I heard the sound of the automatic door opening.

“Welcome!”

I called out reflexively and then froze.
It was her standing in the entrance. I knew it was her just by the way she walked, even before seeing her face. She was wearing her usual striped one-piece dress under a spring coat, her long hair loose and flowing.

“Oh,”

She noticed me at the register and smiled with a look of relief.
She mouthed my name, “Atsushi-kun,” without saying it out loud. Since there were no other customers around, I took the chance to respond.

“Shopping?”
“Yeah, I took a bath, and then suddenly I really wanted some ice cream.”

Just like she said, she had just finished bathing. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and her hair was still slightly damp and shiny.

I glanced out the window of the convenience store. The street outside was dimly lit by streetlights, and I felt a twinge of worry, thinking about how she walked here alone. If she needed something, she could’ve just called, and I would’ve bought it for her on my way home.

Unaware of my concern, Miyu waved at me with a smile.

“I’ll go pick out some ice cream. Do you want anything?”
“…Vanilla ice cream. I’ll leave the brand up to you.”
I answered quietly, and she nodded before heading toward the ice cream section, her coat fluttering as she went.

I looked away, trying not to follow her with my eyes, only to notice the manager, who had been restocking, watching us. Yikes.

This wasn’t the first time Miyu had shown up at the store while I was working.

In fact, she came here at least once a week, buying things like ice cream, jelly, or yogurt drinks. This convenience store is about a 20-minute walk from our apartment, and since it’s in a residential area, it’s pretty quiet at night. I’ve told her I can buy anything she needs after my shift, but she still comes to the store.

And somehow, I can’t bring myself to stop her.

Miyu returned to the register in less than five minutes, probably having already decided what to buy.

“Here you go,”

She said, placing a vanilla ice cream for me and a new spring-release tea-flavored ice cream on the counter. She had one of the store’s electronic money cards, and before I could ask, she pulled it out of her pocket.

“I’ll pay with this!”

“Certainly.”

We had an unspoken rule to speak formally to each other at the register.