Tokyo woke to the soft hum of life the next day. The rain had cleared, leaving the city glistening under the morning sun. Aoi walked to school, her thoughts lingering on Haruki's words from the previous night. "I'm used to it." She couldn't shake the quiet sadness in his tone, as though he had resigned himself to a loneliness he didn't deserve.
The classroom was already alive with chatter when she arrived. She scanned the room, her eyes instinctively searching for Haruki. He was at his desk, as always, scribbling in his notebook. She hesitated for a moment before walking over.
"Morning," she said, setting her bag down beside him.
Haruki looked up, startled, but his expression quickly softened into a small smile. "Morning."
She glanced at the notebook in his hands. "What are you writing?"
"Just... thoughts," he said, closing it before she could see.
Aoi tilted her head, curious but unwilling to push him. "Do you ever share them with anyone?"
Haruki shook his head. "They're not really worth sharing."
"You don't know that," she said quietly.
---
The day passed uneventfully, but Aoi found herself stealing glances at Haruki more often than usual. There was something about him that drew her in—a quiet strength beneath the sadness, a warmth that he didn't seem to realize he possessed.
During lunch, she noticed him sitting alone under a tree in the courtyard. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on his face. He looked so peaceful, yet so distant, as though he belonged to a world she couldn't reach.
Without thinking, she walked over and sat down beside him.
"You're always by yourself," she said, breaking the silence.
Haruki looked at her, surprised. "I don't mind."
"Maybe," she said, "but don't you ever want more? Friends, laughter, someone to share things with?"
He hesitated, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "It's not that I don't want those things," he said. "I just... I don't know if I deserve them."
Aoi frowned, her chest tightening. "Why would you think that?"
Haruki didn't answer, but the weight of his silence spoke volumes.
---
That evening, as they walked home together, Aoi couldn't shake the feeling that Haruki was carrying something heavy—something he refused to share. She wanted to help him, to ease his burden, but she didn't know how.
As they reached her apartment, she stopped and turned to him. "Haruki," she said, her voice firm, "you don't have to do this alone. Whatever it is you're going through, you can share it with me. I'll listen."
Haruki looked at her, his eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, he looked as though he might say something, but then he shook his head, his expression softening into a faint smile.
"Thank you, Aoi," he said. "But some things are better left unsaid."
Before she could argue, he turned and walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the fading light.
---
That night, as Aoi lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, she thought about Haruki's words. "Some things are better left unsaid." But she didn't believe that. She believed that words had power, that sharing your pain could make it easier to bear.
In her notebook, she wrote:
"Loneliness doesn't have to be a prison. Sometimes, all it takes is one person to reach out and remind you that you're not alone."
Meanwhile, Haruki sat by his window, watching the stars. In his notebook, he wrote:
"Even if I can never say it aloud, I hope she feels it—the way my heart beats only for her."
---