He had known her for twenty-three days.
Shared silence.
Shared bentos.
Shared rain.
But he didn't know her full name.
And until today, he never thought to ask.
It wasn't that she hid it.
She just… didn't offer.
And he didn't need it.
Because she wasn't a stranger.
She was Hana.
That was enough.
Until the school flyer came through the mailbox.
He found it wedged between two takeaway menus.
Colorful, creased at the corners.
"Shinagawa High School Cultural Festival – Join Us!"
He almost tossed it.
Then he saw her name.
Hana Takanashi – Art Exhibition, Room 3-B
He froze.
The page rustled in his fingers.
She hadn't mentioned it.
Of course she hadn't.
That evening, when she dropped off the bento, he didn't say anything.
Just accepted it.
But inside, something felt different.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, unwrapped the box slowly.
Inside: rice, soft-simmered eggplant, a square of tamagoyaki shaped like a half-moon.
Deliberate.
Beautiful.
Quiet.
Like her.
The next morning, he found himself walking toward the school festival.
He didn't ask himself why.
He just went.
The front gate was open.
Paper lanterns strung across the railings.
Students handing out maps and candy.
He took neither.
Just followed the signs to Room 3-B.
It wasn't a big display.
Just five paintings pinned on a corkboard wall.
No spotlight.
No crowd.
But the colors—
They stopped him.
Muted watercolors.
Blues, greys, soft purples.
Brushstrokes like whispers.
One painting showed a vending machine under rain.
Another — a baseball bat lying in a puddle, wrapped in cloth.
One — a boy, faceless, walking down a narrow street lined with sakura petals.
He knew that street.
He had walked it yesterday.
There was no artist standing nearby.
No name tag.
Just a sign at the bottom:
"Takanashi Hana – Things That Stay Quiet"
He stood there a long time.
Students passed behind him.
Giggled. Whispered. Moved on.
He didn't.
Not until he felt a familiar presence beside him.
She was holding a paper cup of juice.
Wearing her school cardigan.
Hair tied loosely.
"You came," she said, softly.
He nodded.
"You painted me."
She sipped.
"Not you. Just... what you felt like."
He blinked.
"That sounds like poetry."
She smiled.
"It was just color."
He looked at the painting again.
"This one," he said, pointing at the boy under petals.
"That's the first time I thought I was invisible here."
"You weren't," she said.
Silence.
The good kind.
Then she added:
"I started painting again two years after my brother died."
He turned to her.
Carefully.
Didn't say sorry.
Didn't react.
She continued, her eyes on the painting.
"He played baseball. Not professionally. Just loved it."
Aarav didn't move.
"He used to make me watch. I hated it. Thought it was boring. But I'd draw the field. The shapes. The way light hit the dirt."
She took another sip.
"I stopped drawing when he passed. Everything felt pointless."
"And now?"
She met his gaze.
"Now it feels like remembering. Without crying."
He didn't reach for her hand.
Didn't say anything grand.
He just stood beside her.
And said quietly, "Your paintings feel like… silence with a heartbeat."
She laughed.
Genuinely.
"Best compliment I've ever gotten."
Later, outside the classroom, he turned.
"Your full name," he said.
She raised an eyebrow.
"You didn't know?"
"I didn't ask."
She looked amused.
"Would it have changed anything?"
He thought about that.
Then smiled.
"No.
But now I get to say—your name was Hana.
But you made silence feel like home."
She rolled her eyes.
Shoved the flyer into his hoodie pocket.
"Don't be poetic," she said.
But her smile didn't fade.
That night, he unwrapped the bat again.
Held it.
Whispered:
"I remember now. Not the match.
Not the runs.
But the way I felt.
And the way I was seen."
He placed the bat down.
Opened his journal.
Wrote:
Her name was Hana.
She never asked me to play again.
She just saw me when I didn't know I was there.