The morning was crisp, the sky clear yet veiled by a faint layer of mist clinging to the trees, as if the night itself hesitated to fully retreat. Ehito walked alone, hands deep in his coat pockets, scarf pulled up to his nose. He hadn't slept well—not because of the messages exactly, but because something unfamiliar had stirred in him. A faint, lingering weight.
He stopped near the school entrance, where students gathered in scattered clusters. His eyes scanned the crowd, not searching for anything in particular—just a reflex. And then he saw her. Lia. Leaning against the wall, one earbud in, eyes gazing at the sky above. She looked as she always did, and yet something about her presence seemed further away than usual.
He approached slowly, uncharacteristically hesitant.
She noticed him and pulled out her earbud, offering a quiet, neutral smile.
"Hey."
Ehito stood there for a moment, silent. Then he lowered his head slightly.
"About last night…"
She blinked, clearly surprised—he never brought up that kind of thing.
"I was… distracted. It wasn't about you."
Lia gave a real smile this time, softer. "I figured."
Silence settled between them, this time not tense, but easy.
"So, you forgive me?" he asked, voice lighter than usual.
"I'll forgive you if you compliment my new hair," she teased, pulling a lock forward.
Ehito gave her a quick look, raised a brow. "Wasn't it like that yesterday?"
She laughed. "You really don't notice anything. Come on, we'll be late."
They entered the building together, walking side by side.
The week unfolded with a steady rhythm—ordinary, quiet, and yet subtly different.
Every day, Ehito fell back into his routine: endless classes, quiet meals, unnoticed glances from classmates who still didn't dare get close. He existed in the school like a shadow—present but untouchable. Always observing, always removed.
But then there was Lia.
She became a fixture of those in-between moments—during breaks, before classes, after school. Sometimes they talked about nothing at all. Sometimes she carried the conversation alone, while he listened and replied in short but intentional sentences. And other times, he even smiled. A rare smile—small, careful, but real.
She noticed he looked at her a bit longer than before. That his replies to her messages came quicker, his words more complete, laced now and then with the faintest trace of humor. It wasn't something anyone else could see. But she saw it. She felt it.
On Wednesday, as they left the school building together, Lia nudged him playfully.
"You've become a little more talkative, you know?"
Ehito shrugged. "Maybe you've become less boring."
She lightly hit his shoulder. "You really need help with compliments."
He smiled again—brief, barely there, but genuine.
Thursday brought another shift. They ran into each other in the library. Lia was revising for a history quiz, while Ehito sat across from her, deep in a book on behavioral psychology. She peeked up from her notes and watched him.
"You seriously read that for fun?" she whispered.
He didn't even lift his eyes. "I read to understand."
"Understand what?"
This time he looked at her. A long silence passed.
"What makes people become who they are," he said finally.
She nodded, slowly. She didn't press further.
Some days were like that—when she realized that whatever weight he carried, he wasn't ready to speak it aloud. And maybe never would.
On Friday, everything felt the same. The classes, the halls, the pace of the day. But as they sat together on a bench in the school park, Lia leaned just a little closer than usual.
Ehito didn't pull away. Instead, his eyes lifted from the ground and rested on hers.
"Are you planning to carry everything alone forever?" she asked, her voice quiet.
He breathed in slowly, eyes turning back to the trees ahead.
"I carry what I must."
"And what if you didn't have to anymore?"
A long silence followed. Then he murmured, "I'll think about it."
The weekend arrived, and they each returned to their private worlds.
On Saturday, Ehito stayed home. He trained longer than usual—his body moving through sets and repetitions like a machine. As if exhausting his muscles could silence his mind. His sister passed by his room a few times but didn't say anything. She knew when he needed to be alone.
On Sunday morning, his phone buzzed.
Lia:
What are you doing today?
Ehito:
Nothing. Why?
Lia:
Want to go for a walk? No talking. Just walking.
He stared at the message for a moment before replying.
Ehito:
Where?
Lia:
You'll see.
They met near the river. No words passed between them. Just footsteps, the breeze rustling the leaves, and the quiet rhythm of flowing water. The sun filtered through the trees, casting dancing shadows on the path. Birds called faintly from above.
They walked for a long time—neither speaking nor needing to. The world around them slowed, as if time itself bent to offer them a pause. A stillness.
When they parted, no words were exchanged. None were needed.
That night, when Ehito returned home, a calm settled over him like mist.
He stretched, showered, sat at his desk, and turned on the soft light of his lamp. The silence was familiar, almost comforting.
He picked up a pen.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt the urge to write.
Not about himself. Not about the people around him.
Just… what he saw.
In the corner of his mind, the memory of laughter, the echo of quiet footsteps by the river, and the presence of someone steady and warm lingered softly.
Not loud.
But real.
Like a thread he hadn't yet decided to cut.
He placed the pen down after a few scattered lines, the ink drying slowly across the paper. The act of writing wasn't about creating something beautiful—it was simply about letting something out. Even if he didn't understand what that something was yet.
The room around him remained dim, lit only by the small lamp that bathed the desk in warm gold. His window was slightly open, and the night breeze slipped through the gap, brushing against his skin with a whisper of coolness. Outside, the world continued its usual pace—cars passing in the distance, the faint hum of the city never quite sleeping.
Ehito leaned back in his chair, hands resting behind his head, eyes drifting up toward the ceiling. His thoughts wandered, not toward school, not toward plans or responsibilities—but toward Lia. Her presence still lingered in his mind, not heavy like a burden, but steady, like a quiet light at the edge of a long corridor.
He wouldn't admit it out loud. Maybe not even to himself. But somewhere deep inside, he was beginning to rely on that presence.
Not as a crutch.
But as proof that connection didn't always have to hurt.
That maybe… he wasn't as alone as he believed.