Noodles and Novel Aspirations

The kitchen light cast a bright, white glow.

Genji stood before the stove, a pair of chopsticks in hand, skillfully stirring the noodles in the simmering water.

The aroma of instant ramen, mingling with the steam, gradually diffused, swiftly filling the kitchen with its scent.

He glanced at the potato beside him, which had been mangled by Sato Chinatsu’s clumsy efforts. He could almost picture the stern professor battling the tuber with a knife. He had already peeled what was left of it, slicing it into thin rounds before tossing them into the pot.

It was only instant ramen, but adding a few potato slices was surely better than her charred ‘masterpiece’. Judging by the evidence, Genji deduced that Professor Sato had likely attempted to make omurice, only to burn the omelet.

Once the water boiled and the noodles softened, he turned off the stove, scooped the noodles into a bowl, and added the seasoning packet. He had only bought the noodle block itself, having no seasonings of his own.

Professor Sato’s bowl was her personal one, made of light blue ceramic. Yesterday, Genji had used a stainless steel basin; he had only bought his own bowl today. He ladled extra broth into his own bowl, leaving the other for the professor.

After scattering a sprinkle of chopped green onions, making the noodle soup look somewhat presentable, Genji wiped his hands and carried his bowl out of the kitchen towards Sato Chinatsu’s door.

The door was closed, and no sound emanated from within. He raised a hand and knocked twice.

“Professor, your late-night snack is ready.”

There was no response.

He knocked again, and a muffled, indistinct reply came from inside.

Genji shrugged, returned to the living room, placed his bowl on the coffee table, and settled down to eat. The warm noodle soup was savory, imbued with the delicate scent of egg blossoms.

Finishing the noodles in a few quick bites, Genji also drank half a bowl of soup, then leaned back on the sofa, gently rubbing his stomach. A wave of warmth rose within him, chasing away the chill of the cold night.

The other bowl of noodles sat forlornly on the countertop.

He glanced at the time: a quarter past eleven.

Sato Chinatsu still hadn’t emerged, and that bowl of noodles would likely be stone cold by now.

He sighed, rose to clear his own bowl, and then washed the pot and chopsticks as well.

No sooner had he wiped the sink clean than a soft sound emanated from behind him.

When Sato Chinatsu emerged, her hair was wrapped in a white towel, and damp strands clung to her temples and cheeks, glistening with moisture.

She had taken a shower.

Genji paused, his gaze unconsciously sweeping over her.

The professor had changed into a different set of pajamas, not the loose cashmere loungewear from before, but a light grey silk set with long sleeves and pants, paired with fluffy slippers. The light fabric draped over her frame, the snug waistline hinting at the curves beneath. It was a simple, domestic sight, yet one that held a languid allure he hadn’t seen in her before.

He quickly averted his gaze, his heart pounding faster.

“You’re too late.”

He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound natural. “The noodles are cold now. I’ll make you a fresh batch.”

Sato Chinatsu stood there, casting him a puzzled glance before looking down at herself. She furrowed her brow, seemingly not understanding his awkwardness. Her nightgown was quite modest, not revealing her shoulders or legs; it was just ordinary sleepwear.

“Mm,” she responded with a faint hum.

Genji began heating water again, his back to her. He tore open a new packet of instant ramen, staring down at the pot, willing himself to calm down.

Sato Chinatsu walked to the dining table and sat down. She unraveled the towel, letting her wet hair fall freely over her shoulders, and began to pat it dry. Her unadorned face, revealing one earlobe, was as flawless as white jade.

She pursed her lips, continuing to dry her hair with a sense of ease. The scent of shampoo intertwined with the aroma of instant noodles, weaving back and forth in the air.

After a while, Genji emerged, carrying a steaming bowl of noodles, which he placed before her.

“Eat,” he uttered the single word, then turned and returned to the living room, settling onto the sofa.

Sato Chinatsu looked down at the noodles in her bowl, picked up her chopsticks, and slowly took a mouthful.

The noodles were perfectly al dente, and the potato slices, having absorbed the broth, were soft and flavorful. She chewed a couple of times, her brows gradually relaxing.

She hadn’t intended to eat dinner today. Genji had only left her lunch, and she had thought she could simply endure the hunger in the evening, but she hadn’t lasted. She had long grown tired of takeout, otherwise, she wouldn’t have frozen dumplings in her refrigerator. According to her usual habits, she didn’t even care much for noodles. Yet, she couldn’t understand why someone could make even instant noodles taste so delicious.

She glanced towards the living room; Genji sat on the sofa, a notebook in hand, his head bowed as he wrote something. The light fell upon his face, his brows furrowed as if wrestling with some profound thought.

She remained silent, continuing to eat her noodles.

“Your hand was just cut; you really shouldn’t have showered. The wound shouldn’t get wet,” Genji suddenly broke the quiet atmosphere.

Sato Chinatsu paused. “I wrapped it. It’s not like I don’t know that.” As she spoke, she raised her fair, delicate palm towards Genji, the wound on her ring finger securely covered by a band-aid. She disliked Genji lecturing her; she was the older one, after all.

“Oh.”

Genji never looked up, as if merely expressing concern subconsciously. He gripped his pen, sketching and scribbling in the notebook.

He wanted to adapt a novel he remembered.

A Good Day for a Solo Traveler (TL Note: A literal translation of the Chinese title ‘一个人的好天气’, which is the Chinese translation of the Japanese novel ‘Hitori Biyori’ by Aoyama Nanae, published by Bungeishunju.)

The story was simple: a young girl named Chizu lives with her distant relative Ginkō, and through the narration of everyday details, it explores the loneliness and growth of youth.

‘With a few minor tweaks, it could work,’ he thought. ‘My apologies, Aoyama Nanae-sensei, for borrowing your work.’

He would shift the setting to Tokyo, replace the relative with someone like Sato Chinatsu—aloof yet a little clumsy—and infuse it with his own experiences: the rains of Akita, the stillness of the countryside. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but the idea felt right.

The living room was quiet, disturbed only by the soft scratching of his pen and the gentle clinking of Sato Chinatsu’s chopsticks against her bowl. The atmosphere in the room, unlike its previous chill, now held an undefinable warmth.

Sato Chinatsu finished her last mouthful of noodles, a look of contentment gracing her face, and pushed the bowl aside. Leaning back in her chair, her fingers unconsciously traced the band-aid. It had been applied by Genji, and its edges were starting to peel up slightly.

Her gaze surreptitiously drifted towards the kitchen, where the countertop, previously ravaged by her efforts, was now spotlessly clean; the soy sauce stain had vanished completely.

She rose, carried her bowl to the sink, and casually rinsed it. Though she couldn’t cook, washing a single dish surely wouldn’t lead to any more mishaps.

After Sato Chinatsu dried her hands and returned to the living room, she saw Genji still engrossed in his writing.

She paused, then spoke, “From now on, you’ll be in charge of dinner. I’ll cover the meal expenses. How about that?” This was a conclusion she had reached after careful consideration. People shouldn’t insist on doing things they’re not good at.

Genji’s hand stilled, and he looked up at her. He thought he had misheard. “Huh?”

“I’ll pay for the meals,” she repeated herself, her tone even.

Genji froze for a few seconds, then his eyes lit up, and he nodded eagerly. “Alright, yes, no problem at all!”

He didn’t need to stand on ceremony. The few banknotes and silver coins in his wallet might not even amount to the value of Professor Sato’s pajamas. To have a stable meal ticket was more than he could have hoped for. The leftovers from cooking for Professor Sato would be enough to fill him up.

Sato Chinatsu nodded and turned to leave, but her gaze fell upon the notebook at his side. It was filled with dense, sprawling script, a tangled mess of characters.

She frowned, taking two steps closer.

“Whose class was it today?” Her voice suddenly turned cold. “You actually took so many notes, yet you always seem to be zoning out during my lectures.”

Genji detected a hint of something amiss but didn’t dwell on it.

He quickly waved his hand, “Today was Professor Tanaka’s and Professor Yamamoto’s classes—Introduction to Philosophy and History of Japanese Literature. I wasn’t taking notes; this is…”

He paused, pushed the notebook towards her, and said, bracing himself, “I’m preparing to write a novel.”

Sato Chinatsu froze for a moment, then took the notebook and glanced down. It contained a long string of descriptions, fragmented and seemingly nonsensical, yet with her extensive reading, she easily guessed the kind of story Genji was conceptualizing.

She turned a page, her brows furrowing even deeper. She instinctively wanted to say something, her lips parting as if to repeat yesterday’s sarcastic remark, “Don’t waste paper.”

But the words caught in her throat.

“You can let me see it when you’re finished,” she finally said. Her voice was quiet, but it had lost its sharp edge.

Genji looked up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Huh? Oh, alright…”

Sato Chinatsu said nothing more, placed the notebook back in his hand, and turned to return to her room.

Before the door closed, she paused and softly uttered, “Goodnight.”

Genji stared at the open notebook.

“Goodnight,” he whispered in return, though she could no longer hear him.

The wind still blew outside the window, and the overcast sky pressed down even lower. The living room light remained on, casting a warm, yellow glow upon the sofa and illuminating the notebook in his hand.

That spark of inspiration continued to burn, now fiercer than ever.