That night, too, Yume had come down to the shared kitchen late. As if a dam had burst, she began to talk, bit by bit. I sat across from her and just listened in silence.
"..."
"There's this girl in my class who's ridiculously good. Just one. When I look at her work, I'm like, there's no way. Whatever I do, I'll never beat her."
"..."
"And she's probably about to get a job offer from some brand. Everyone's moving forward, one after another, and I'm the only one with nothing decided."
Her voice grew thinner and thinner. It wasn't the grown-up way she talked during the day.
"I'm never going to be anybody, I guess. No title, no track record, nothing. I've got a lot of followers, sure, but that doesn't mean anything."
Yume laid her hand over her phone, which was still face down.
"...Maybe I'm just not cut out for this."
I didn't contradict her. I didn't say "You are cut out for it," or "That's not true." I sensed that words like that weren't what she needed right now.
"Wait here a moment."
I went into the kitchen. I poured milk into a pan and set it over a low flame. You mustn't let it boil. It's best to warm it gently, just short of a skin forming. Once tiny bubbles begin to line up around the edge of the pan, it's time to pull it off the heat.
I mixed the cocoa powder into a paste with a little hot water first. That way it dissolves smoothly without lumps. Straight from the powder, it stays gritty no matter what. A little sugar. When I stirred it into the warm milk, the pan turned a deep brown all at once.
As I stirred slowly with a wooden spatula, the scent of cacao rose in the steam. Sweet, and just a little bitter. To finish, I floated two marshmallows from the shelf on top. The white lumps lost their edges in the heat and slowly began to melt.
Warm steam rose, carrying the smell of cacao.
I set it in front of Yume.
"Hot cocoa. For nights when you can't sleep."
Yume looked down at the mug. On the surface, the white marshmallows were slowly beginning to melt.
"...Sweet stuff makes you fat, you know."
"Cacao contains something called theobromine."
"Huh?"
"It's supposed to help you relax. And a warm drink on its own makes your body want to rest."
Yume gave me a slightly exasperated look.
"You know the weirdest stuff, Mister."
"Cooking's my only hobby."
She wrapped both hands around the mug. The fingers that had been tapping away earlier now quietly traced the curve of the cup.
She took a sip.
"...It's warm."
Then she was silent for a while. I didn't say anything either. On the counter, a thin wisp of steam rose and vanished.
"Hey, Mister."
"Yes."
"Do you think it'd be easier if I just gave up?"
Yume said it with her eyes still on the mug.
"I picked this path because I loved it, you know? I loved clothes, I loved making things. But at some point it turned into nothing but chasing assignments and comparing myself and just hurting."
She was watching the marshmallows melt.
"It's hurt this whole time. Comparing myself to the good ones and getting down on myself. So I wonder if I'd be better off just not saying I love it anymore, and getting a normal job."
"..."
"But I feel like if I give up, it'll really be over. It scares me, so I can't."
I thought for a moment. Then I spoke slowly.
"You don't have to decide whether to give up tonight."
My voice came out quieter than I'd expected.
Yume looked up.
"Tonight you're tired, you're hungry, and you've just been comparing yourself to someone who's good. Whatever you decide in that state probably isn't how you'll really feel tomorrow."
"..."
"So you don't have to decide tonight. Drink your cocoa and go to sleep. You can decide some other day."
"...I don't have to decide?"
"You don't. Tomorrow, next month. Next year, even."
Yume looked at me for a while. She started to say something, then stopped. Then she looked away abruptly and scooped up a marshmallow with her spoon.
"...You know, Mister, you're kind of..."
"Yes?"
"Unflappable. No matter how bratty I am to you."
"Am I?"
"If someone said 'What would you know?' to you, normally you'd get way more annoyed. But you, not at all."
She put the half-melted marshmallow in her mouth.
"It's kind of boring."
Even as she said it, her cheeks were a little red. Maybe because the cocoa was warm.
"Sorry. When you get older, you don't have the energy to get annoyed anymore."
"Ugh, there it is. Mister's self-deprecation."
Yume laughed a little. That smile wasn't the made-up kind she posted on social media during the day. It was a little lopsided, and that made it look all the more real.
That face suits you better, I thought, but I didn't say it. Saying it would probably ruin it.
At our feet, Komugi had gotten up and plopped his chin onto Yume's foot.
"Ugh, Komugi, you're heavy."
Even as she said it, she was stroking Komugi's head. The way she stroked him was gentle.
"...At least this guy never asks how many followers I have," she murmured.
I had some sense of how heavy those words were. Around her, there must always have been a world that measured people in numbers. Number of likes. Number of followers. Rankings in contests. Komugi has none of those. He just likes hands that pet him.
"Komugi seems to like you."
"...I know."
By the time she'd finished the cocoa, the redness in her eyes had faded a little.
"Thanks for the drink."
She said it softly as she carried the mug to the sink.
"...Mr. Manager."
I was in the middle of washing up, and asked her to repeat it.
"Yes?"
Yume froze for an instant, then spoke in a rush.
"Nothing! Good night!"
Listening to her footsteps running up the stairs, I tilted my head. What had she just called me? I didn't think it had been "Mister." But maybe I'd misheard, I thought. Late at night, even your ears get fuzzy.
At my feet, Komugi looked toward the empty mug and gave a whine.
"I keep telling you, that's not for you."
The night had grown just a little cooler.