The morning sun poured through the classroom windows, illuminating the wooden desks with a soft golden glow. The autumn breeze carried the distant laughter of students from the schoolyard, but inside, the classroom hummed with quiet conversations, the occasional rustling of papers, and the rhythmic tapping of pencils against desks.
Aika sat at her desk, sketchbook open, pencil poised above the page. She had been staring at the same blank space for minutes now, lost in thought. Her fingers tightened around the pencil, but she didn't draw a single line.
Her eyes flickered toward the far side of the room, where Riku sat near the window, his elbow propped up on the desk, chin resting on his hand. The sunlight framed his profile, catching in his slightly tousled black hair. He looked peaceful, but there was something distant in his gaze as he stared out at the sky.
It was strange. For the past two weeks, he had been normal—laughing, teasing her, acting as if nothing was wrong. But every now and then, just for a fleeting second, she would catch something different.
A hesitation in his voice.
A shadow in his smile.
A tiredness that wasn't just physical.
Aika's grip on her pencil tightened.
"I just want to make good memories."
That was what he had said before the festival. At the time, she hadn't thought much of it. But now, those words refused to leave her mind.
She exhaled softly, lowering her gaze back to her sketchbook.
Why did she feel like time was slipping through her fingers without her even realizing it?
---
A Familiar Tune
The lunch bell rang, but Aika found herself wandering the halls alone.
Riku had excused himself earlier, saying he had something to do. He hadn't said what, and for some reason, that unsettled her.
She wasn't particularly hungry, so instead, she let her feet take her somewhere quiet.
When she pushed open the door to the music room, she wasn't surprised to find it empty. Most students were outside, enjoying the crisp autumn air, but Aika preferred the silence.
Her fingers trailed along the smooth surface of the grand piano, tracing the edges of the keys.
This was Riku's world.
While her hands were made for painting, his were made for music. It had always been that way.
She hesitated for a moment before pressing a single key, letting the soft note echo in the empty room.
Then, from down the hall, she heard it.
A guitar.
Aika's heart skipped.
The sound was faint, but she recognized it instantly.
Riku.
She followed the melody, stopping just outside a small practice room with the door slightly ajar. Through the gap, she saw him.
Riku sat on a stool, his guitar resting against his leg. His fingers plucked the strings with gentle precision, weaving a slow, melancholic tune. His brows were drawn together slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line.
He looked... peaceful.
And yet, something about the scene made her chest ache.
She had heard Riku play countless times before, but this felt different. There was an intimacy to the way he played—like he was whispering something only the strings could understand.
Like he was trying to capture a feeling before it faded forever.
Aika leaned against the doorway, watching silently.
It was beautiful.
But it also felt lonely.
---
Interrupted Silence
"Are you just gonna stand there and stare?"
Aika flinched at the sudden sound of Riku's voice. He hadn't even looked up, but somehow, he had known she was there.
She pushed the door open fully, stepping inside. "Maybe. It's fun watching you be all dramatic."
Riku smirked, his fingers still moving over the strings. "You think this is dramatic?"
"A little." She folded her arms, nodding toward his guitar. "What's the song?"
He hesitated, just for a moment. "Just something I'm working on."
Aika sat down on the bench beside him, her knee brushing against his. "It sounds different from your usual stuff."
He raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
She searched for the right words. "I don't know... It just feels kind of sad."
His fingers stilled for a fraction of a second before continuing. "Sad, huh?"
"Yeah. Like you're trying to say something but you don't know how."
Riku let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "You always overthink things."
"Maybe," Aika muttered, studying his face. His expression was unreadable. "But I still think I'm right."
Riku didn't respond immediately. Instead, he strummed the guitar one last time, letting the final note linger in the air.
Then, with a smirk, he nudged her lightly with his knee. "Alright then, genius. What do you think I'm trying to say?"
Aika opened her mouth, then closed it.
Because she didn't know.
Or maybe she just didn't want to admit what she was afraid of hearing.
---
An Evening Walk
The sun was beginning to set by the time they left school, the sky painted in soft hues of orange and violet. Their footsteps echoed on the quiet sidewalk, fallen leaves crunching beneath their shoes.
Aika kicked a stray pebble down the road. "So, are you ever gonna finish that drawing?"
Riku glanced at her. "Which one?"
"You know which one. The festival sketch."
He smiled, but there was something distant in his eyes. "...Maybe."
Aika frowned. "What's stopping you?"
Riku hummed, tilting his head. "I guess I just feel like it's not done yet."
"Obviously," she said dryly. "That's why it's called an unfinished sketch."
He chuckled. "No, I mean... I think I'm waiting for something."
Aika stopped walking. "Waiting for what?"
Riku kept moving a few steps ahead, hands in his pockets. The wind tousled his dark hair as he looked up at the sky, his voice quieter this time.
"I guess I'll know when I see it."
Aika stared at his back, an unsettling feeling twisting in her chest.
Something about the way he said it—so soft, so certain—made it sound like he already knew what he was waiting for.
And that scared her.
---
The Weight of Unspoken Words
That night, Aika lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The sound of Riku's guitar still lingered in her mind.
That song.
That feeling.
The way he spoke like time was slipping through his fingers.
She didn't know what any of it meant, but deep down, she knew one thing for certain—
Something was wrong.
She just didn't know how to ask.
Because if she asked, she might get an answer.
And part of her was terrified of what that answer might be.