The morning sun filtered through the blinds in long, golden slashes across the apartment floor, cutting diagonally across unopened textbooks and laundry that had yet to find its way into the washer.
Shinichi stirred beneath a blanket that had somehow wrapped itself around his leg like a stubborn vine. He groaned, half-conscious, as his alarm vibrated beside his head—not a sharp, sudden sound, but a quiet, persistent hum, like a wasp trapped inside a jar.
He reached for it blindly, knocking over a pencil, a pair of glasses, and what might have been an empty cup of instant noodles from two nights ago.
His fingers finally found the phone and silenced the buzzing. The apartment returned to stillness. A stillness that felt oddly judgmental.
There was always something disorienting about mornings after long conversations—especially the kind filled with memory, implication, and the rustle of something too old to be named but too close to be ignored.
Last night's reunion at the café had left an invisible weight on Shinichi's chest, one he hadn't fully acknowledged until he woke up and realized he had barely slept.
His mind had replayed it over and over: Koizumi's lowered gaze, Hinoka's unflinching words, the unspoken clock ticking between them.
He sat up, hair a mess, eyes heavy, and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
...
...
The rest of the apartment was in disarray—a collection of half-attempts at adulthood scattered in every direction.
The trash bag by the door was full, the dishes in the sink were beginning to form a civilization, and the refrigerator offered nothing but a bottle of mayonnaise, one expired egg, and a note from himself that read: "Buy groceries, idiot."
He rubbed his temples.
"This is fine," he muttered, walking toward the bathroom.
"Totally fine. I'm a functioning member of society. I'm a university student. I can read Aristotle. I can survive."
He opened the cabinet and found toothpaste but no toothbrush. He opened the laundry basket and found only socks—none of which matched.
He stared at the mirror, as if hoping it might offer advice. It only reflected a young man who looked far too exhausted for someone his age.
Still, Shinichi dressed, halfheartedly scrubbed his face, threw on his worn-out sneakers, and made his way out the door, keys jangling like a nervous orchestra.
...
...
Outside, the hallway of the apartment building was quiet. The kind of quiet that held its breath, waiting for life to fill it again.
He locked the door and turned left—only to nearly collide with Hinoka, who stood by her own door holding a paper bag filled with what looked like breakfast and mischief.
"Well, well," she said, raising an eyebrow. "The living corpse awakens."
"Good morning to you too," he replied, blinking. "You're up early."
"I always am. Some of us don't treat alarms like suggestions."
She thrust the bag into his chest. "Here. You skipped breakfast, didn't you?"
Shinichi stared at the bag, then back at her. "How do you know that?"
"Because you always do when your thoughts get noisy," she said simply. "And last night? Pretty noisy."
There was no smugness in her tone, no teasing grin. Just a straightforward honesty that startled him. She stepped past him toward the elevator.
He followed, still holding the bag. "Did you… sleep well?"
Hinoka shrugged. "Define 'well.' I dreamed of punching my thesis advisor. That counts, right?"
He smiled despite himself.
...
...
By the time they reached the campus, the day had fully awakened. Students were everywhere—some rushing between buildings, others lounging on benches with iced coffees and headphones, and still others leaning against vending machines in existential despair.
The university had its own rhythm, a chaotic ballet of youth and responsibility, and Shinichi still wasn't sure he had found his place in it.
He parted ways with Hinoka near the literature hall, and she waved over her shoulder without looking back, already halfway into a conversation with someone else.
His first class dragged.
It wasn't the professor's fault. Dr. Takashima was passionate, expressive, and absolutely in love with medieval Japanese poetry.
But Shinichi's mind wasn't in the lecture hall. It was drifting, wandering, pausing on faces and voices from the past.
He found himself scribbling aimlessly in his notebook, drawing the outline of the bridge near their childhood school. He hadn't seen it in years, but he could draw every crack in the railing from memory.
At one point, Koizumi's voice echoed in his mind—not her voice from now, soft and layered, but her voice from when they were eleven and she used to scold him for jumping into puddles with his school shoes.
"Shinichi, you'll catch a cold, stupid."
It wasn't even scolding, really. It was concern disguised as frustration. It always had been.
He blinked and realized he had written the name "Koizumi" on the top corner of the page.
He quickly scratched it out.
...
...
Later that afternoon, Koizumi herself appeared.
Not by accident. Not by chance. She was sitting under the cherry blossom tree near the south library, her eyes closed, listening to something through her headphones.
She looked peaceful, like she had stepped out of another world. The breeze toyed with strands of her hair, and a book rested on her lap—Woolf's To the Lighthouse, if his memory served him.
Shinichi stood a few steps away, unsure whether to call out. But she opened her eyes before he could decide.
"You came."
"I didn't know I was expected."
She smiled. "I had a feeling."
He walked over and sat beside her, keeping a respectful distance. The wind carried the scent of fresh earth and old bark.
Koizumi spoke first. "Do you ever think about how strange it is? That we're here now, adults—sort of—and yet everything feels like it's repeating?"
"Repeating?"
"The triangle," she said softly. "You. Me. Hinoka. It's like we're walking in a circle we started years ago."
He glanced at her. "Are you… unhappy with that?"
"No," she said. "I'm just aware of it. That's all."
She turned a page in her book without reading it.
"Sometimes I wonder," she added, "if we would've turned out different if we had gone to different schools. Lived in different towns. Maybe we wouldn't have carried this promise so far."
Shinichi stared at the ground.
"You regret it?" he asked.
Koizumi hesitated.
"I don't know. I don't regret loving you. I just… sometimes wish it was simpler. Like when we were kids, and love was just holding hands and fighting over candy."
He swallowed hard. The words stung in their tenderness.
"Do you think it's fair?" she asked suddenly.
"To still be waiting for something you said so long ago?"
"I—" His throat tightened. "I didn't think it would matter this much."
"It mattered," she whispered. "To both of us."
...
...
The sky began to turn dusky. Shadows stretched across the lawn like ink spills.
Students passed them by in pairs and groups, laughing, yawning, arguing over assignments. The world spun on, oblivious to the ache between two people sitting in silence.
Eventually, Koizumi stood, dusting off her skirt.
"We should head back," she said.
Shinichi nodded, but his feet felt heavy.
They walked side by side through the narrowing paths of campus, neither speaking. And yet, everything that needed to be said hung in the air like a constellation waiting to be traced.
When they reached the apartment complex, Koizumi paused by his door.
"I know we're not kids anymore," she said. "And I know you're not the same Shinichi I made that promise with."
She looked at him—really looked at him.
"But I also know that the boy I loved then still lives somewhere in the man you've become."
And with that, she turned and walked away.
Shinichi watched her disappear into her own apartment. The hallway was quiet again.
But this time, the silence didn't feel empty.
It felt like a heartbeat.