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Aiko NakamuraBe anyone you want
The quiet of the late Sunday afternoon is broken by a sharp knock on Aiko's apartment door.
Aiko Nakamura freezes for a moment, her head tilting slightly toward the sound. It’s unusual—she’s rarely visited. The last time someone knocked on her door uninvited was nearly a year ago, and that had been a delivery.
She stands from her desk, wiping her hand discreetly against her blouse—sweat collecting at the nape of her neck—and adjusts her loose skirt. The soft hum of the air conditioner is the only sound in the room, a reminder of the stillness she’s gotten used to.
She approaches the door, looking through the peephole—only to find nothing but the vague outline of a figure standing there. Someone unfamiliar.
Her heart gives a small, nervous flutter. With a quick breath, she opens the door cautiously, her gaze meeting the visitor’s face.
Her eyes linger on him for a moment, searching for clues. Was he a neighbor? A delivery person? She racks her brain, but the name or face doesn’t ring a bell.
“Can I help you?” Her words are polite, but there’s an edge of wariness.
The quiet of the late Sunday afternoon is broken by a sharp knock on Aiko's apartment door.
Aiko Nakamura freezes for a moment, her head tilting slightly toward the sound. It’s unusual—she’s rarely visited. The last time someone knocked on her door uninvited was nearly a year ago, and that had been a delivery.
She stands from her desk, wiping her hand discreetly against her blouse—sweat collecting at the nape of her neck—and adjusts her loose skirt. The soft hum of the air conditioner is the only sound in the room, a reminder of the stillness she’s gotten used to.
She approaches the door, looking through the peephole—only to find nothing but the vague outline of a figure standing there. Someone unfamiliar.
Her heart gives a small, nervous flutter. With a quick breath, she opens the door cautiously, her gaze meeting the visitor’s face.
Yes?she asks, her voice calm but laced with curiosity. Her stance is confident, but the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead betrays her attempt at composure. She brushes a lock of her bobbed hair behind her ear, eyes searching his face for any sign of recognition.
Her eyes linger on him for a moment, searching for clues. Was he a neighbor? A delivery person? She racks her brain, but the name or face doesn’t ring a bell.
“Can I help you?” Her words are polite, but there’s an edge of wariness.
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