Weeks passed. Kyoko kept trying to understand izumi, determined to uncover what lay beneath his cold exterior.
She saw hints of something—small moments where his actions contradicted his words. He'd casually pull her out of the way of an incoming soccer ball, offer his umbrella on rainy days, or—when he thought no one was looking—stare at the sunset a little longer than necessary.
He said he didn't feel anything, yet he acted in ways that suggested otherwise.
One evening, as they walked home together, Kyoko spoke up.
"You say you don't have emotions, but I don't believe that."
Izumi sighed. "Believe what you want."
"Then answer me this—if you truly don't feel anything, why do you always help me?"
He stopped walking.
Kyoko turned to face him, searching his expression for something—anything.
"...Habit," he finally said. "I've learned what people expect. I act accordingly."
"That's a lie," she whispered.
Izumi stared at her, unreadable.
Kyoko took a deep breath. "I think you're afraid. Not of people, but of yourself. Of what you might feel, if you ever let yourself."
For the first time, he looked away.
And for Kyoko, that was enough proof.
Winter arrived, covering the town in soft layers of white. The two of them walked together after school, their footsteps crunching in the snow.
Kyoko pulled her scarf tighter. "Hey, Izumi."
"Hm?"
"I think I've fallen for you."
Izumi didn't stop walking, nor did his expression change.
"I see," he finally said.
Her heart clenched. No reaction. Nothing.
"...That's all you have to say?" she asked, forcing a smile.
He glanced at her, his gaze unreadable. "I warned you. I don't feel love, Kyoko."
A sharp gust of wind blew past them, but it wasn't as cold as his words.
And yet, Kyoko smiled. "Then I'll just have to show you what it feels like."
Izumi didn't respond.
But that night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, something strange stirred in his chest.
Something he didn't understand.