November 2013
The novelty of university life had long since worn off, replaced by a cold, gray November reality. For Shino and Kevin, the "rhythm" they had hoped for felt more like a fraying rope.
The crack started on a Friday night. Kevin’s team had just clinched a spot in a regional tournament, and the pressure was suffocating. Meanwhile, Shino was facing her first major term paper—ten pages on the symbolism of silence in postwar Japanese literature.
When Kevin’s face appeared on the pixelated Skype screen, he wasn't smiling. He was in his dorm, the background noisy with the sounds of his teammates shouting and playing video games.
"Hey," Kevin said, leaning back. He looked physically spent. "The guys are heading out to celebrate the win. I told them I’d join in ten minutes. I just wanted to check in."
Shino, surrounded by three open coffee cups and a mountain of sticky notes, felt a sharp pang of resentment. "Ten minutes? Kevin, we haven't had a real conversation in four days."
"I know, Shin-chan, but the Coach was literally standing over us today. I’m the only freshman pitcher on the travel roster. I have to show face with the team. It's 'bonding,' or whatever."
Shino pushed her glasses up her nose, her eyes stinging from the glare of the screen. "Bonding. Right. Because drinking at a karaoke bar is more important than helping me find a thesis statement. I sent you three drafts, Kevin. You didn't even reply."
Kevin sighed, a sound that came out more like a groan. "Shino, I’m a baseball player, not a literary critic. I don't understand half the words in those drafts. I have playbooks to memorize and a sore shoulder that I’m trying to hide so I don't get benched."
"It’s not about the words!" Shino’s voice rose, startling her roommate in the next bed. She lowered her tone to a sharp whisper. "It’s about the fact that I’m trying to share my world with you, and you’re treating it like a chore. You’re so wrapped up in your 'star player' life that you’ve forgotten I’m even here."
"That’s not fair!" Kevin snapped, leaning into the camera. "I spend every spare second on a train or on this stupid app for you. Do you know how many guys on my team have already broken up with their high school girlfriends because it's 'too much work'? I'm the only one still trying!"
The words hung in the air, cold and sharp. Still trying.
"Is that what I am to you?" Shino asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "A project? A job that’s 'too much work'?"
"That’s not what I meant," Kevin muttered, rubbing his eyes. But the damage was done.
"If it's such a burden, maybe you should just go to the bar," Shino said. "Go bond with people who don't require so much effort."
"Shino, don't do this—"
"I have a paper to write. Goodnight, Kevin."
She closed the laptop before he could respond. The silence that followed was deafening. Shino sat in the dark, staring at the blinking cursor on her Word document. For the first time since they were children, she felt a genuine, terrifying distance between them—one that a train ticket couldn't fix.
She waited for him to call back. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.
Her phone remained dark.
Kevin didn't call back. He was tired of being the one to apologize, and she was tired of being the one who waited. The first crack in the foundation of "Shino and Kevin" had finally appeared, and as the winter wind rattled her dorm window, she wondered if the house they were building was strong enough to survive the cold.
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and then Add to home screen.