The plan wasn't to let Ji take control.
Michiko repeated this internally as she took out her phone, deciding she had to initiate contact on her own terms, reclaiming some semblance of control before things spiraled beyond her reach.
She typed deliberately:
[Michiko]:
Let's go to dinner on Friday. I'll pick the place this time. Somewhere we don't have to sit on stools.
She expected hesitation, maybe even playful pushback. But Ji's reply arrived swiftly, almost instantly.
[Ji]:
I already reserved a place. You'll love it. 7pm.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly. Irritation, she tried to tell herself, though it felt disturbingly similar to excitement.
[Michiko]:
You're impatient.
[Ji]:
I prefer prepared.
A second message followed:
[Ji]:
I don't like wasting time when I know what I want.
Michiko's breath stalled. She didn't reply. Not because she was annoyed, but because she didn't trust herself to hide just how much she enjoyed being the object of Ji's attention.
When Friday evening arrived, Michiko found herself stepping into a dimly lit bistro, candles flickering over white linen tablecloths. Ji waited patiently at a corner table, the half-consumed cocktail by their hand, displaying a welcoming look. It's as though Michiko's arrival had always been inevitable.
Ji had carefully curated their appearance, dressed in moderate shades, the cream cardigan and sheer blouse softening their usual intensity. Their hair fell delicately around their face, intentionally feminine, deceptively gentle.
Michiko approached cautiously, eyes narrowed slightly. "You enjoy controlling every little detail, don't you?"
Ji responded in a voice that was smooth and reassuring. "I just wanted a backdrop that suited you."
She took her seat, maintaining her practiced indifference. "So you think I'm dramatic."
Ji shook their head in sincerity. "No, I think you're fascinating."
Michiko faltered briefly, unable to meet Ji's eyes for a moment. They ordered wine and pasta for Ji, grilled vegetables and tea for Michiko. The conversation drifted easily, skimming over shared interests and personal anecdotes, until Michiko intentionally brought up the literature student who had been texting her recently.
"She's cute," Michiko mentioned lightly, raising an eyebrow teasingly. "So just know I have options."
Ji paused, glass halfway to their lips, eyes sharpening subtly. "Are you thinking of seeing her?"
Michiko smiled playfully. "Are you jealous?"
Ji didn't smile back this time. Their fingers circled the stem of their wine glass slowly, gaze steady and unblinking. "Just don't get too friendly."
Their voice was calm, barely crossing the threshold from playful to serious—but it resonated deeply, sending a chill crawling up Michiko's spine. A sudden flash of memory surged forward unbidden—her stepbrother snatching her phone, invading her privacy with careless entitlement, laughter mocking and cruel.
"You always have someone lined up, huh? Pathetic."
Ji hadn't moved, hadn't even touched her. Yet something in their undisturbed assertion brought that old fear rushing back. Michiko gulped, fighting to steady herself.
"You wouldn't enjoy her anyway," Ji added without much emotion, returning their wine glass to the table.
Michiko's voice tightened. "Have I mentioned her before?"
Ji shook their head slightly, expression unreadable. "You didn't have to."
She forced a quiet laugh to mask her discomfort. "You really are a bit obsessive."
Ji's lips curled faintly, almost warmly. "Focused, maybe. But so are you. You pretend you're indifferent, but you notice everything, don't you?"
She hated how precisely Ji had seen through her. Even more, she hated that her own silence was an unintended confirmation of Ji's unsettling insight.
Dinner continued composed after that, punctuated by mundane spoken words. Outside, Michiko debated internally how to close the evening neatly.
Ji simplified things smoothly. "We should see each other again next week. Tuesday—I know a place near your favorite bookstore."
Michiko paused, eyes narrowing. "How do you know about my favorite bookstore?"
Ji smiled ambiguously, reaching out slowly and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't overthink it."
Ji offered to walk her to the station. Michiko respectively declined, insisting she had errands to run. Ji didn't argue, didn't sulk, just nodded with understanding. Yet their gaze lasted a moment longer than usual, quietly possessive, slightly intense.
Back home, Michiko sat at the corner of her bed, staring at her phone screen. Despite her attempts to dismiss her unease, she couldn't bring herself to reply to Ji's subsequent messages. She didn't block their number, didn't delete their conversation—she just let the messages sit, unanswered, accumulating in the silence between them.
Days passed without a response, her anxiety solidifying painfully as Tuesday arrived. She stared at her phone, struggling internally before finally typing:
[Michiko]:
I can't make it today. Something came up.
With a surge of urgency, she sent the message, her heart beating in a chaotic rhythm. As she stared at the expectant screen, a battle raged within her—relief mingling with doubt, anticipation clashing with fear.