𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫 │Nishimura Riki

04

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↳ currently playing ;;
[Lovers ] - [Anna of the north]

Lily knew him too well. If there was one thing she could bet on, it was that Nishimura Riki didn't understand the meaning of boundaries. The second she left him on seen, she knew what would follow a knock on her door, a casual "we need to talk," maybe even that smug half-smile he wore when he thought he had the upper hand.

She wasn't going to give him the chance.

So before the sun could even stain the sky pink, she slipped out of the house, hoodie pulled over her head, hair tucked up, moving like a girl with something to hide because she was. She wasn't running away, not really. She just needed silence. Space. A version of herself that didn't feel like a walking headline.

The diner sat tucked between a closed bookstore and a rusting flower shop, as if time had folded around it. No one really came here anymore  no influencers with ring lights, no reporters sniffing around, no fans pretending to "accidentally" bump into her. Just worn booths, chipped mugs, and a jukebox that never played the same song twice.

The walls were lined with old posters — Marilyn, Elvis, Audrey — and the checkerboard floor always made her feel like she'd stepped out of her own life and into someone else's. Someone quieter.

This place had always been her little writing haven. When she was younger — before everything got loud and complicated she used to come here with her notebook and scribble down stories while the waitress played Sinatra and the old man by the counter read the paper front to back. It was safe. It was hers.

And this morning, it was her only escape.

She sat perched on a red vinyl stool at the counter, legs crossed neatly, a vanilla milkshake in hand old school glass, whipped cream tilting to one side, a cherry already sacrificed to her nervous appetite. The jukebox was playing something soft and hazy, like a dream you half-remembered, and the scent of pancakes and cinnamon drifted through the air like it belonged there.

The barista an older woman with steel-gray curls and a name tag that read "MARLENE" in faded cursive — was wiping down the counter, chatting with Lily like they'd known each other for years. And in a way, they had. Marlene never asked questions, never judged, just smiled and poured coffee and called everyone "honey." Lily loved that.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and adjusted the silk scarf knotted around her neck  a dainty floral one she found in her dad's closet, probably her mom's from back when she was Lily's age and still soft around the edges. The scarf was a flimsy excuse to cover the glaring bruise pressed against her collarbone. A hickey. A literal, cinematic hickey.