The soft gray of the overcast sky matched the stillness inside the classroom. A dull light filtered in through the windows, throwing long, muted shadows across the desks. The usual hum of lunchtime chatter echoed faintly down the hallway, but Lily wasn't listening.
She was watching Aki.
He was in his seat. Headphones on. Back straight. Eyes pointed out the window as if he were searching for something far away.
Not once had he looked her way today. Not in homeroom, not between classes, not even when they passed each other by the lockers.
It wasn't that he was absent.
He was here.
But it felt like he wasn't.
Lily's hand tightened around her pen. A creeping chill slipped through her chest—not quite anger, not quite sadness. Just… confusion. Worry. And something else she couldn't name.
"Aki's acting weird again," Mira said in a low voice, sitting beside her. "Did something happen between you two?"
"No," Lily said quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. "Nothing happened."
Mira eyed her for a moment, unconvinced. "Well, if it gets weird, you'll tell me, right?"
Lily didn't answer.
Because she didn't know if she could.
The rest of the school day passed in a blur. Assignments, announcements, conversations — all drifting around her like static. What stayed with her was the silence between her and Aki. A silence so loud it nearly swallowed everything else.
When the final bell rang, the students rushed to pack up. Excitement buzzed in the air about the upcoming Hokkaido field trip. But Lily stayed behind, moving slowly, her thoughts stuck on one thing.
Or one person.
Aki.
She glanced over her shoulder. His desk was already empty.
Again.
She found him by the back stairwell—the place he always went to when he didn't want to be found. His bag was slung lazily over one shoulder, and his eyes flicked toward her the moment she appeared at the landing.
He tensed. Then turned away.
"Aki," she called.
He paused.
She descended the last few steps slowly, carefully. "Why are you avoiding me?"
"I'm not," he said, voice calm but distant.
"You are. You barely say a word to me. You don't sit with me at lunch. You won't even look at me half the time."
He shrugged slightly. "Maybe I've just been busy."
Lily stepped closer. "Don't lie to me."
He finally turned toward her. His eyes—usually so open, even when guarded—were closed off now. Like he'd shut some door in himself and didn't plan to reopen it.
"You're imagining things," he said quietly.
"No, I'm not. I know you, Aki. Something's wrong."
He didn't answer. Just kept staring past her, somewhere into the fading afternoon light.
Lily's voice trembled. "Did I do something?"
That question hung between them.
Aki shook his head slowly. "It's not you."
"Then what is it?"
He hesitated for too long.
"I just… need space," he finally said.
It wasn't the answer she expected. It wasn't even an answer.
Her heart squeezed painfully. "That's not fair."
"I know."
"But you won't tell me why?"
He looked at her now, his expression unreadable. "I can't."
Lily stepped back, swallowing the lump in her throat. She had a thousand more things to say, but the way he stood—the way his shoulders had stiffened—told her it wouldn't matter.
He wasn't ready to share whatever it was.
So she nodded slowly. "Okay."
He blinked, surprised by her response.
"I don't get it," she whispered. "But I'll wait. I'll wait for you to stop running away."
Aki looked like he wanted to say something more—but the words never came. Instead, he simply turned, walked past her, and disappeared into the stairwell's fading light.
Lily stayed where she was, the silence pressing in again.
Only this time, it wasn't just distance between them.
It was something heavier.
And she didn't know how long it would last.
The bus ride home that afternoon was quieter than usual.
Lily sat by the window, her chin resting on her hand, eyes fixed on the blurred cityscape rushing past. Trees turned to buildings, chatter faded to engine hum, but nothing reached her fully. The seat beside her, usually filled with Mira's lively presence or Aki's quiet companionship, felt painfully empty.
The conversation at the stairwell looped again and again in her head. The way Aki stood. The way he spoke. The way he wouldn't meet her eyes.
"I just… need space."
What did that even mean?
She had never asked him to stay by her side. Never expected him to shoulder anything for her. But over time, being around Aki had become a part of her rhythm. His presence—his awkward smiles, his observations, his quiet understanding—had carved out a comfort she didn't even realize she needed.
And now, it was gone.
She turned her face away from the window and pressed her forehead to the cool glass. Her breath fogged up a small patch. The ache in her chest wasn't sharp—it was something dull and heavy, a weight that refused to lift.
When she got home to Uncle Masaru's house, the lights in the hallway greeted her softly, but the warmth of the home didn't reach her.
"Back already?" Masaru called from the kitchen.
"Yeah." Her voice barely carried.
She slipped off her shoes and moved past him before he could say more. She wasn't ready to talk—not yet.
Once inside her room, she tossed her bag onto the floor and sat at her desk, staring at the old sketch Aki had given her weeks ago. The one she'd kept tucked beneath a stack of notebooks, as if hiding it would keep her feelings organized.
She pulled it out now, hands trembling.
It was a simple pencil drawing—of a girl, standing at the edge of a lake, hair blowing in the wind. Her expression was unreadable, like she was waiting for something.
Or someone.
Lily stared at it until the lines blurred. Then she pushed it aside and laid her head down on the desk.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
But the tears were close.
"Is this how Lily felt when I wasn't around? "