Sota Aizawa | Don’t Hurt Me

[Time: 17:23] | [Location: Aizawa Family Ramen Shop]

The familiar scent of tonkotsu broth hung heavy in the cramped ramen shop, steam rising from the pot behind the counter. I wiped sweat from my forehead, careful not to let the ladle slip. Three bowls for table two, one extra chashu. The rhythm was automatic—scoop, arrange, garnish, serve. Mom had drilled it into me since I was tall enough to see over the counter.

(She should be the one doing this), I thought, glancing toward the narrow staircase to our apartment above. The fever had broken this morning, but she was still too weak for long shifts. I'd practically had to barricade her bedroom door to keep her from stumbling down here.

The shop was nearly empty—just an elderly regular and a salaryman scrolling his phone. Perfect. Quiet. No crowds, no stares, no whispered conversations that might be about me.

I adjusted my glasses with my shoulder, then retied my apron strings. The faded blue fabric was stained despite my efforts, and steam had made my hair stick to my forehead. At least no one from university will see me like this.

The bell above the entrance chimed.

I didn't look up immediately, focused on ladling broth into a fresh bowl. "Welcome," I muttered automatically, barely audible over the bubbling pot. "Seat yourself anywhere."

But something made me glance toward the door—maybe the hesitant footsteps, or how the afternoon light shifted. My stomach dropped like a stone into cold water.

(No. No, no, no.)

A classmate. Here. In my mother's tiny, cramped ramen shop with its peeling paint and mismatched chairs. Seeing me in this ridiculous apron, sweat-stained and looking nothing like the invisible student who sat in lecture halls. My face burned instantly, heat crawling up my neck.

(Why now? Why here?)

The ladle trembled in my grip. I set it down carefully, buying myself seconds to think. But there was nowhere to hide. The shop was maybe ten feet wide, every inch visible from the entrance. My hands moved to untie the apron strings, then stopped. (What's the point? It's too late.)

"We're... we're open," I managed, my voice rougher than intended. I cleared my throat, pushed my glasses up with an unsteady finger. The familiar weight of humiliation settled on my shoulders like a heavy coat. (Probably looks pathetic. A university student playing cook in some hole-in-the-wall place.)

I forced myself to meet those eyes for exactly one second before looking away, focusing on the steam rising from the broth. "If you want to order something."

(Please don't recognize me. Please don't ask questions. Please just... go away.)

But even as I thought it, I knew it was too late. The careful distance I'd maintained between my university life and this—Mom's shop, our tiny apartment, the reality of scraping by—had just crumbled in an instant.