{A Night of Nothing Special for the Two of Us 2}

“Oh, it feels kind of awkward when I think, ‘Ah, the professor really wrote this,'” I said.

Miyu seemed to understand what I meant and nodded in agreement.

“That’s probably because you know that professor well, right?” she said.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied.

“You know, there’s no chance this would ever happen, but… if I ever wrote a book, I wouldn’t care if people who don’t know me read it. But if you read it, I think I’d feel really embarrassed.”

Curious, I asked her, “Just me?”

“Yeah,” she nodded again.

“For example, if I wrote in the book, ‘I like making coffee,’ people would probably think I’m a coffee lover, right?”

I nodded. Anyone reading that would assume she liked coffee.

People who don’t know Miyu wouldn’t realize that she actually prefers orange juice over coffee. If it were written in a book like that, everyone would believe she was a coffee enthusiast without question.

“But you’d know the truth, right? It’s not that I love coffee itself. I love making coffee so that you can drink it,” she said with a shy smile.

That made me pause. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the reason this book is hard to read is because I know the professor well. Since I know the person behind it, I can see beyond the words on the page.”

It was a quiet night, with no TV on.

The conversation, which had started from my sigh, was light and casual, but what she said resonated with me deeply, leaving me momentarily speechless. It had always been that way. Miyu’s words, with her unique sensitivity—something I don’t possess—had a way of slipping deep into my heart.

In the past, it used to frustrate me, making me restless for no reason.

But now, it’s different. Every word she gives me makes me feel happy.

Finally understanding the true meaning behind her offer to make coffee, I closed the book I had long since stopped reading and said, “Let’s take a break. I’d love some cold coffee.”

“Okay,” she said, getting up from her chair and heading to the kitchen.

As I watched her go, I stretched and then stared at the closed cover of the book in my lap.

Seeing the familiar professor’s name, I thought, “Maybe it’s harder to read a book when it’s written by someone you know.” But I still had to read it—after all, the professor planned to cover it in class. If I took breaks and approached it bit by bit, maybe I’d eventually get used to his jokes.

For now, though, it was break time. I wanted to spend this quiet night leisurely, with someone I knew much better than any professor.

Before long, the rich aroma of coffee wafted through the dining area.

Miyu returned, carrying a glass of iced coffee for me and a glass of orange juice for herself.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

She handed me my glass of coffee and then sat down beside me on the sofa. The two of us took a moment to relax together.

“About what we were talking about earlier,” I said.

“Yeah? What about it?”

“I’m curious what kind of book you’d write if you ever did.”

Miyu smiled awkwardly. “I couldn’t do it. I’m not a good writer… That was just a hypothetical!”

Was it, though? To me, her sensitivity seems like something rare and valuable—maybe that’s just my biased affection talking.

“What about you, Atsushi? If you were to write a book, what kind would it be?”

She picked up the conversation with an amused tone.

“Me? It’d probably be a really convoluted, overly analytical book,” I said.

“Really? I don’t know about that,” she replied.

“Definitely. Even the narration wouldn’t be straightforward—it’d be a super difficult, annoying book to read.”

I took a sip of my cold coffee.

Miyu, after taking a drink of her orange juice, smiled proudly and said, “But even so, I bet I’d understand it. I’d probably pick up on feelings that no one else could.”

Of course, she would.

I may never write a book, but if I did, it would undoubtedly be a book where she—out of everyone in the world—would understand everything.

“Actually, I’d want you to be the one who understands it,” I said, gently stroking her hair as she sat next to me.

She giggled softly, tickled by my touch.

Our hobbies may be different, but we spend time together like this.

Tonight is just another ordinary night—yet it feels incredibly happy.